


Damocles

by darksylvir



Category: K (Anime), Moulin Rouge! (2001)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cabaret, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:55:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5351441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darksylvir/pseuds/darksylvir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Tatara called it a piece of the floating world, broken off and hidden away in the squalor of the banlieue. An empire of heavenly delights, where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the Orient. Pretty fantasies, but at night, with the lanterns lit, one could believe they were true."</i><br/> </p><p>Paris, 1899. A small dance hall, riding the wave of japonisme at the turn of the century, and a love story lost in time. Shameless Moulin Rouge!AU/Incarnation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act 1: Nature Boy

_I came to Paris in the summer. I did not know that it was the turn of the century, nor that this city beat at the heart of it. I knew nothing of their world, their language, their empire. I knew only that I would never go back to the land of my birth. And I was glad, as long as I held his hand._

_The man who took me was named Mikoto. I had heard them call him Aka-oni, the Red Demon. He stood taller than anyone I’d ever seen, and held no sword. But he did what he’d been hired for, rid us of the bandits when countless ronin had failed. It was a rainy month, and their blood turned the mud of our village streets murky red. Red like his hair, red like his hands, red like the past that had named him._

_The village elders had no money, and had not counted on paying. But they had me, and I had nothing._

_He did not have to take me, and I saw that he did not want to. I did not blame him, for I had no training to be a wife, and only ten winters behind me. Perhaps this seems barbaric, to you, but know that there are places where childhood is not a sacred thing, but a burden to be borne for as short a time as possible. I knew the moment my parents died that I would be sold, and I could only hope that my buyer would be kind._

_Mikoto saved me, though he did not mean to. So I followed him, through remote villages as poor as mine or poorer, through red-light districts and gambling houses, through Tokyo’s vast underbelly. I followed him onto a ship, our passage paid by the strength of his body and his will, and I followed him across the sea. I followed him through the foreign streets filled with staring eyes, to a small room at the top of falling down stairs. Here is another man with the kind eyes that had filled my fervent prayers, who almost weeps with laughter as he lets us into his home, his heart. His name is Tatara and he can do everything, but right now he writes plays and songs and paints posters for the Damocles, where he has found Mikoto a job._

_I know little of love, but what I know starts there._

 

—

 

“We have a new investor coming in, tonight, and he’s requested that we provide, er, protection. While he’s here.”

Isana Yashiro looks too young to be running a brothel. Night club, dance hall, whatever the hell Totsuka tried to call it. Mikoto has taken jobs in Yoshiwara, though, knows a pleasure house when he sees it. Sure, they could dress it up here, hide behind the dances and songs, but at the end of the day there’s one thing the clients are after—the draw of Damocles is that it comes in exotic wrapping.

“An upstanding place like this, really?”

Should watch his words, maybe. He doesn’t know what Totsuka’s said about him to get this offer, only that it was probably three-quarters bullshit. Izumo’s probably been more realistic, but he’d also vouched for him. Their positions here might be depending on how well he’s doing. But Isana’s got one of those frayed smiles, worn from heavy wear, like he’s asked himself the same thing.

“Honestly, I did intend Damocles to stand apart from the rest. Somewhere artists can continue to earn upon their performances, to share a little bit of our homeland.” His face goes cloudy with reminiscence, a look Mikoto’s seen on Totsuka, back on the docks when they were kids and dreaming to stave off empty stomachs and old bruises. It falls off just as heavily, leaving years behind.  “—but we do what we must to survive. I assure you, we are not like the _yukaku_ of Tokyo--there is no one here who does not choose to be.”

It’s not much of a choice, but Isana’s face says that he needs to believe it’s enough. Mikoto doesn’t hold with illusions, never has. Still, this man has given Totsuka a stage and Izumo a bar and kept them safe in a strange city while he was oceans away. He owes him. Another god-damn bond. He leans back in his chair, feels his lips twitch on a smoke that isn't there. His last one had been in Tokyo, and the persistent want is just the edge of the irritation buzzing under his skin. “So, this lord needs someone to watch his back.”

“Essentially.” Isana shuffles absently through the show posters piled on his desk. “Duke Renault was quite intrigued by our Jewels of the East, enough to make a trip away from his country estate to see the--show. You may have heard of them?”

He flips one of the posters around, an experimental watercolor of a pair of dancing kimono. Mikoto recognizes Totsuka’s enthusiastic brushwork, but nothing else. “Can’t say I have.”

If he had, he hadn’t understood. His French is basic, at best, scraps from his childhood in the harbor and the past few months at sea. Isana shrugs. “Damocles doesn’t rival the larger establishments, but we have our share of affluent patrons and that is mostly on account of their act. The Duke could do great things for us, and we desperately need it.”

Damocles is small, catering to that exclusive niche desperate to be somewhere else. It takes money to stock the sake in Izumo’s bar, to import silk for kimono, fine tea leaves and tatami.  “He gets what he wants, then.”

“I’m glad you understand.” Isana looks older, the more he talks. “So, will it do? We were at a loss before Totsuka mentioned you were arriving. If he trusts you, I can only assume you are good at what you do.”

Made a point of not pressing for exactly what that was. Honestly, Mikoto hates bodyguard work the most, chained to someone like a hunting dog at heel. But there’s little else he can do with the power coiled into his shoulders and fists, itching to tear free. He’s had a hard enough time keeping it caged, especially here where the crowds are too close and the laws have changed and multiplied to contain them. Rather not hand someone the key.

But there’s Anna, all fine bones and an old yukata. Izumo, Totsuka, the small room they share. He’s never had anything else to give them.

“Pays enough, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent.” Isana stands, extending his hand. Mikoto supposed he’d have to get used to this Western habit, but at least there aren’t kisses like the ones Totsuka had rained on his cheeks. “Come back tonight, around eight--that’s a little before the main show starts, and when the Duke will arrive. Do you happen to have a suit?”

“If Izumo does.”

The man’s laugh is genuine, this time. “Well, then, welcome to the Damocles.”

 

 


	2. Act 2: Sparkling Diamonds

_Damocles._

_Tatara called it a piece of the floating world, broken off and hidden away behind the squalor of the banlieue. An empire of heavenly delights, where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the Orient. Pretty fantasies, but at night, with the lanterns lit, you could believe they were true._

_I watched it come alive from the room at the top of the stairs, my first eve in Paris. I watched the drab, Chinese-inspired awning turn to fine rosewood in the soft dusk, watched the golden characters of the lacquer sign flicker to life, like koi against an inky pond. They’d made up the front to mimic the delicate lattice-work of a teahouse, papered over with translucent posters advertising the acts within. Shadows writhed behind that thin barrier, suggesting tantalizing deeds--kimono slipping from bare shoulders, a pipe held delicately to inviting lips. Men stopped and stared, great crowds of them that clustered and dispersed like clouds of flies. They had no money, feeding their hunger with their eyes alone._

_Mikoto was there in the doorway, in one of Izumo’s spare suits. The light set his hair aflame. Beside him, a smaller man in blinding white. I would call him Shiro, in time. A carriage pulled up along the boulevard. The figure who emerged wore a kitsune mask, and walked as if he owned the world._

_This was the Duke._

_Tatara says that a story must have its cast at heart. They move forward, and the world shapes itself around them. Here, I watched them assemble._

_Shiro._

_The Duke._

_Mikoto._

_And--_

 

\--

 

It’s too hot and too loud, each moment in this place clinging to his skin like the scratching starch of this ridiculous getup. Smoke’s thick on the air. Mikoto’s hands twitch for the cigarette he still hasn’t had.

The Duke doesn’t bother to talk to him, at least. Isana had done the introductions and assurances in rapid French, and they must have been enough because he’s here in the private balcony, edged up against the wall by a flock of _maiko_. Their twittering crams the tight space and the Duke laughs along, the sound echoing oddly around the priceless _noh_ mask.

He’s done this job enough to know that disliking your meal ticket is pointless, but there’s something off about this one. More than the arrogance--soft Tokyo nobles wore the same, and he wouldn’t expect it to change much across the sea, that constant of being filthy rich. It’s something else, how he sounds like he’s starving when he should be full, like Mikoto should be looking for danger in two directions at once.

Laughter surges from the dance hall below. His grip tightens on the bannister, and he sweeps the chaos for any possibility of a threat. Any excuse at all to let loose the rootless, seething pressure pounding its way along his bones, to burn himself clean. But there’s nothing, nothing but the narrow dance floor and cramped stage, kimono blooming against the swarm of dark coats and white dress shirts. Two worlds thrust together, sorting out through flesh. Little else concerns them, violence least of all.

Izumo flickers briefly into sight, at the bar doing a hundred things at once but looking more alive than he ever had in Tokyo. He looks up through red-smoked lenses, winks before disappearing under another eave. It’s supposed to put him at ease, maybe, but all it does is remind him again of the weight pressing him here, locking into place. All those ties, the chains that dragged him halfway across the world.

To this.

Nothing he hasn’t seen before. _Geisha_ , musicians, entertainers. They’ve even got a few _oiran_ in full costume, all of them women except the bored-looking one at the center of the largest cluster of admirers, sight-translating a poetry scroll and winning a game of _go_ at the same time. A sham, too much or not enough, for foreign patrons and strange money. Not like he misses Tokyo, the the slums or the hunger, but at least there all this was real.

“Mesdames and messieurs!”

Isana’s made his way to the head of the stage, a red kimono thrown over the shoulders of his white suit. The Duke leans forward eagerly. The girls clap their hands and chatter about him. “This is it, danna-sama, it’s time! Just watch!”

“Are you enjoying your visit to the floating world?” Isana cocks his ears toward the crowd with exaggerated motions, buying their laughter with his clowning. A different man from the one in the office, worrying over old posters. “I believe that it is time to show you our greatest treasures, pilfered from the great dragon god’s palace beneath the sea. I present to you, our Jewels of the East--the Sapphire King, and his Diamond Queen!”

He whirls about, his kimono flaring out in scarlet wings as a gust tears through the candles and plunges the theatre into darkness. The girls shriek in delight, and Mikoto thinks that this is about a good time for assassination as any, except he can still hear the Duke’s breaths hitching through the mask’s gaping mouth. Judging by the purring and hooting that rises with the heat, the audience has decided to use the dark for other reasons entirely. He leans against the wall, hopes the act is long enough for a decent nap.

The first notes of the _koto_ cascade into the air, clear and precise as rain on the edge of a blade.

Mikoto’s eyes snap open. The chords linger in the sudden silence, then fall like mist across his skin, edging out the stifling heat and quenching a thirst he hadn’t even known he’d had.

Sea light seeps onto the stage, pooling over the young man seated at its heart. He looks like he’s been ripped straight out of a feudal drama, folded into ornate robes and sitting as if he’s got a spear in place of a spine. It should look absurd, gaudy like everything else in this place but he--well, he lifts his eyes and regards them like those half-divine princes in Totsuka’s stories, smiles like he knows exactly how to undo each and every single person here. Mikoto’s caught between the sudden desire to either punch him or to laugh, laugh at the sheer audacity of that pride.

Then his fingers flicker over the strings and he _plays_.

Totsuka had salvaged an old wreck, once, pored over it for hours and got halfway decent except for when he wasn’t. When Izumo had asked him why exactly he had to drag another piece of junk into their already cramped hovel, he’d launched into a passage about how the legendary Genji fell in love with a princess at the faint sound of her _koto_ on the night air. Mikoto had thought that was the stupidest thing he’d ever heard.

But if that princess played like this--

A woman unfolds, impossibly, from behind that slender back. She’s something to look at, her glittering kimono just barely clinging to the generous curves of her body, but no one dares to clap or whistle or shout the usual dirty things--no, not when she moves like she does. Purpose, elegance, a grace that puts all those _oiran_ to shame and the assurance of royalty--but like the rest of them, she’s pulled in by the music.

There’s some kind of story, one that has Totsuka written all over it. The way she dances around him, the way he ignores it. A heavenly maiden falling in love with a musician who can’t even see her The notes are becoming stupidly complex and her movements more desperate, each twist of her hip or arch of her back baring china skin and limbs that go for miles. It’s probably the best damn strip tease he’ll ever see in his entire life, and it’s all a waste because the strings flood everything out, cut through the fog the dull, dead months have left around him and sharpens every sense to painful, singing clarity.

He doesn’t know what it is. She does, maybe, the way she trembles as the chords reach a climax and then spills over the _koto_ and across its player’s arms like cast-off silk. The curtains close, the lights shudder on, and the crowd goes _mad._

Mikoto finds he’s leaning too far over the balcony railing. He slouches back ( _like he can’t still feel the ghosts of those fingers along every vein_ ), shoots the Duke a cursory glance. He’s still in one piece, one of the more eager _maiko_ fastened to his arm and babbling. “We all train to be like Mademoiselle Seri, but I don’t think Reisi-sama would ever work with anyone but her, they look so beautiful together. Don’t you think, danna-sama, did you like it?”

The mask is still tilted to the direction of the stage, the voice from within high with need. “Indeed. Indeed, I did.”

Mikoto feels his hands twitch, again, for a different reason entirely.

 

\--

 

“Our dear Duke is in truly capable hands, of that you can be certain. Or is it that you desire a turn as well?”

Mikoto glances away from where his charge is spinning the Diamond Queen about in frenzied circles, and she is somehow making it seem delightful. “You offering?”

The _koto_ player--Isana introduced him as Master Reisi, but like hell that’s what he’s calling him--tilts his head, a bowl of Izumo’s finest sake balanced on his fingertips. “I do not partner well when there is such a significant gap in caliber, unfortunately.”

No wonder he can’t understand his French, the swift, effortless exchanges that have ended up with them out of balcony and down in the pit. The smile is still on, downright arrogant in close quarters, but he wears it in a way that’s beyond money, like it’s braided into his bones and gilted his blood. Mikoto feels the urge to punch him, again, on principle, even as his lips twitch into something like a smirk. “You can’t be that bad.”

“Not in the least.” He takes a sip, like he can’t feel the jostling masses or the clamor of the slightly offbeat music, posture as perfect as his _seiza_ , his playing. A tidy, calculated poise, just begging to be undone. Maybe that’s how he reels them in. “How unexpected, to find the Duke has a Japanese companion in his entourage.”

“Hn.”

The pair whirls by again, the mask’s laugh a whine buzzing right into the ear. He’s shed some layers, leaving simple, silken robes that drip from his shoulders, the passing drafts pushing them easily along the long lines of his body. Or not, because it’s not like Mikoto is looking, can afford to look, not when there’s the crowd to scan, a hundred ways this can go wrong. But he’s there--every raw nerve is aware of it. A threat, a naked blade wrapped in silk, pointed right at him.

“How terribly rude of me.” Mikoto turns his head, learns that violet is an actual eye color and not just one of those things Totsuka had pulled out of his ass for a pretty image. “Would you care for a cup?”

It’s some kind of game, some kind of challenge, one he’s seen played before in countless tatami rooms. He rises to it, despite himself. “You get one of these girls to give me a pour, maybe.”

The smile thins slightly. “I suppose that a spirit such as this would be wasted on you, in any case.”

“Weak shit usually is.”

Izumo would probably gut him for that. The man doesn’t reply, but his gaze flicks away, a clean severing of interest. He drains the rest of the cup as the music trills to a stop and there’s a swell of applause. Light catches on the traces of sake glistening on his mouth, where Mikoto is still very much _not looking_. “Well then, allow me to take my leave. The next act takes some preparation, and I would not wish to disappoint.”

“Only so much you can do on a _koto_ , isn’t there?”

He’s suddenly close, so close Mikoto almost misses the rapid flick of his wrist. He catches the empty dish right before it hits him in the eye. The man’s already crossing the dance floor to where his partner’s waiting, but pauses, sparing an instant to glance back through a fan of dark hair.

“I possess many more talents, I assure you.”

Well. Mikoto shrugs, follows his path through the crowd, ignores the blood in a seething hum, pressing up against his skin.

 

\--

 

The King and Queen dance together, this time. The Duke has a front and center seat. Mikoto stands behind him, hands in his pockets and eyes on the stage.

The woman’s done another costume change, something in black lace and barely opaque gauze, fastened with an impossible _obi_ of woven crystals. They’re holding fans painted like cranes’ wings, but it’s not the stiff, formal dance of the teahouses--it’s alive, the lines they draw following the swoop and curve of magpies wheeling across the sky. Hers are sinuous, teasing. His are sharp, with all the disciplined finesse of _kata_. They contrast, balance, then switch, effortlessly--she snaps a clean arc forward, so fast the paper edges whistle along to the scream of the _shakuhachi_ , and he drops, his arms drawing quick, graceful circles around the axis of his body.  

Could be a fight, could be some kind of mating dance. It’s hard to tell, and no one cares as long as it doesn’t stop.

There are electric moments when Mikoto thinks their eyes meet, over the pass of a sleeve or in the gaps between the fans. Of course, it’s all in his head, because it’s dark as hell and there’s no way that spinning, delicate dance allows any break in concentration. He’s not alone. The Duke twitches every once in awhile, at the edges of his sight. Someone gasps, here and there.

It’s a different pull than the music, but it’s a pull all the same. And yeah, maybe he can understand Isana a little better, pinning his hopes on these two. Because whatever truth or art or intention he had for this place, what little’s left, it’s with them.

The drum beat quickens. Their faces shimmer under the blaze of the lamps, but neither backs down. They draw closer, move faster--it’s an experiment in disaster, if either of them miss a step, misjudge a movement. Mikoto’s kind of waiting for it to happen, to shake free of this draw, to see a crack in that perfect pretense.

She lunges, sweeping her fans forward, and he whirls aside, skirting the edge of the stage. He grins into the darkness, the smallest break in the carefully arranged mask, and it’s then--the sweat, the smile, the inhuman color of his eyes--

But there’s something not--

He realizes it too, in the next moment, the way his face furrows, almost surprised as he staggers heavily onto one knee, presses a hand to his throat, and collapses.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I question why my coping method for the tragedy that is K is to involve the characters in another tragic plot, but it helps. Thank you all for the support, I hope I can do this idea justice!


	3. Act 3: Your Song

_Tatara has written many things about love. He still does, even after all of it, only there are not as many happy endings. They all used to be._

_I first learned love to be a broad back and stained hands, empty rooms filled with waiting, the last of out rice squeezed into a soft ball and dropped into my palms. In Paris it is morning through flung-open windows, a bright laugh, clouds of flour and flurries of ink, the same way it is smoke and spirits on a threadbare jacket, a hand on my head, the effort to be kind. My love is small and ordinary, though perhaps not traditional, built brick by brick. A warm, essential thing._

_But it wears different masks, this I know. The feeling that sings quietly through me and anchors me to each day can at the same time be a wild, ravenous beast, a fire and a flood. I was not ignorant of desire, not when our lives so revolved around the Damocles, not when Tatara’s words sang of passion and red strings of fate. Only it has not yet set its claws in me, to rend me apart._

_I don’t know how it caught them, whether it was a long hunt or a moment of weakness, for neither of them was likely prey. I didn’t ask how it happened, for I was young then and Mikoto kept his secrets close; Reisi held his even closer._

_I only saw the thread being formed, bright as heartblood, through the window, through the dark._

\--

 

“Take a walk,” the Duke had said. Something like that. Not his fault if he can’t understand and his client can’t be bothered to clarify. The Diamond Queen shoots him what could be a sympathetic look, before she shuts the door to the Paper Room and locks it.

So, Mikoto wanders. The walls are thin, here in this secluded wing, and he really doesn’t need to listen in on what's going on behind the flimsy door. At all.

It’s a floor that shouldn’t exist, shoved under the slope of the roof. Paper lanterns litter the rafters beside candles in shallow bowls, battling the drafts leaking in from creaky skylights. Good excuses to move closer, get warm. At least it’s quiet, or as quiet as anywhere in the heart of this city could be. The music is still there, thrumming quietly beneath the floorboards, persistent as a headache.

He moves through short, empty corridors walled by _fusuma_ and _shoji_ , chambers stacked within each other like those puzzle boxes Anna would run her fingers over in the markets and then pretend she hadn’t. The map he’s drawing in his head shouldn’t make sense in such a small space, but he’s beginning to think Isana is much craftier than he lets on. Or crazier. Takes a certain kind of daring to hollow out so much of a structure, to stuff a piece of Yoshiwara into the attic. It works, somehow. If only everyone he bothered to care about wasn’t tied to such a flimsy dream, he might be impressed.

The lip of the sake cup bumps up against his knuckles at each step, a thudding reminder. He’ll have to give that back to Izumo at some point--he knows how he gets about things in their right place.

Three more turns, three more empty rooms. It must be crowded on the average night. The Duke could have bought them all out, that or Isana is pulling out all the stops on this gamble. Can’t risk anything going wrong. Which means he should find his way back to the Paper Room, regardless of how much he doesn’t need to be there.

He thinks that, anyways, before he turns a corner and the _koto_ player’s there, smoking against the wall.

 

_The Queen doesn’t miss a beat. She twirls on her heel, sweeping the train of her kimono over her partner as she sinks to her knees and arches backwards like a drawn bow. The stage lights caress her glistening chest. She smiles like a conqueror, her hair tumbling free--a rising crest of feathers, blown loose by the flutter of her fans._

_It’s a good act. They buy it. Mikoto should too, only--_

_The curtains swing shut, and the crowd turns into a riot. The Duke is clapping vigorously, halfway out of his chair. They’re heavy cloth, the drapes, but there’s the suggestion of frantic movement behind them. Someone starts a chant for an ‘encore’--whatever the hell that is._

_Isana pokes his head out. His knuckles are hard knots of bone where they grip the folds, but his face is one big smile. “How was that for a grand finale?”_

_Another roar blows hot over Mikoto’s neck. Isana mimes a wince and it thins out to laughter. “Such spirit! However, the sea must reclaim its treasures--I know, I know! Such a greedy mistress--still, as the famed haiku by master Natsume Soseki goes, ‘The lamp once out, cool stars enter the window frame.’ So please, enjoy yourselves with our lonely little stars, given brighter light by the passage of our twin suns!”_

_Makes no sense whatsoever, but enough to distract. The hungry mass break up behind him, sorting into their old clusters. Isana eases himself out of the thin gap, hopping down off the stage and heading toward them with brisk steps. “Your grace, I do hope everything has been to your liking thus far?”_

_From then it’s the same old song and dance, all the way back up to the balcony. Meanwhile, the curtains have opened on a girl with hair the outlandish color of cherry blossoms, wearing what looks like a princess’s entire wardrobe. Needs them, apparently, as she begins a rambling recitation of an epic history and sheds a piece of clothing after every verse. Nothing compared to the Jewels, but he’s getting the feeling that everything past the fall has been a feint. Watching the draw of a sword, when you should be looking at the knife in the sleeve._

_There’s a knock on the balcony door. A quick glance at the Duke, and Mikoto opens it. The Diamond Queen is a vision in the doorway. Alone._

_“My dear Duke,” she breathes, pearl dust turning her sweat to otherworldly shimmer. “The Paper Room is free, if you so wish to continue our discussions in more -private- quarters?”_

_He doesn’t ask her about what might have happened, doesn’t know if the Duke does. His job is to follow them up more stairs, check the shadows, court nonexistent threats. Nothing more._

 

“Should you be smoking, after that?”

He doesn’t look surprised in the least as Mikoto takes the space beside him, just slides his eyes over like a somewhat interested cat. “To what are you referring, exactly?”

“Could have sworn I saw you take a fall, in that last bit.”

Those narrow shoulders stiffen slightly, but only for a moment, the space between a drag and the release of smoke. “I fear you are beyond help if I must explain the dramatic intricacies necessary for a captivating performance.”

So, that’s how it’s going to go. Fancy words with nothing behind them. He should just put this conversation out of its misery, but the long journey must finally be taking its toll because he just keeps going like something’s wrong with his head. “That so?”

“I apologize if the realism caused you unnecessary worry on my behalf.” His brow furrows as he notices the column of ash clinging to the end of his cigarette. Mikoto holds out the empty cup--worth it to see the surprise flicker over his composure, as quick as the flick of his fingers. “Though, your concern is--touching.”

He doesn’t look or act like he’s dying, the glowing tip of the cigarette steady in his grasp. Mikoto’s not sure he’d be able to tell, even if he was. “You got any more?”

“A terse nature has some charm, I suppose, but it is quite overshadowed by the lack of clarity. Requests have a better chance of being fulfilled when you’re specific in your demands.”

Maybe he’ll start a new game, see how long it takes to exhaust the other’s vocabulary. “A smoke. Do you have another one?”

He drags out the question and the _koto_ player drags on the silence afterwards, right down to cinders. They make little noise as they fall into the bowl, like a grave offering, followed by their paper husk. Mikoto’s getting ready to shove off the wall and just leave him there like he should’ve when he’d first rounded the corner, but then he’s turning toward the door, opening it.

“Come in.”

It’s a small room full of junk. Mikoto feels like he’s walking back into that hovel on the docks, except this stuff is probably more expensive than the entirety of Totsuka’s old collection, and worth even less. The musician doesn’t bother with lights, if there are any. Only moonlight, thin and blue, streaming through narrow windows. It makes rivers of the draped silks and shadows, rivers running into the dark sea of a lavish bed, covers and pillows in suggestive disarray. Artsy, but dead as those stone gardens back in Tokyo.

He walks right by the giant thing, disappears into a back corner sectioned off behind a large folding screen. Mikoto sets the sake cup on top of a nearby dresser. “So, what do I call you?”

There’s the sharp strike of a match. Soft gold drips through the _washi_ squares; his silhouette is bent over what could be a desk, sorting through drawers. “Is your French truly so appalling that you cannot understand basic introductions?”

Mikoto snorts. “Little early for given names.”

The shadow pauses. “Ah.” Westerners were casual here. How long had it been, that even he would begin to forget? “Munakata, then.”

It sounds vaguely familiar, another Totsuka-shaped memory. Mikoto chases it down as he picks through the room, reminded by the ink paintings on the walls. “Like the goddesses?”

The shadow has found whatever it was looking for; the smell of tobacco weighs the air, richer than anything they’d had in Japan. Or maybe it’s just been that long. “It seemed an appropriate homage, after our safe passage. I did not take you for someone who would have such detailed knowledge of Shinto mythology. How fascinating.”

A veiled insult, barely, made teasing by what sounds like genuine curiosity. Must be rare, this thread of conversation. Maybe that’s why he’s still here. A sense of familiarity, amidst all the Western charades. “Got a friend who reads a lot.”

A faint rustle of paper, rolled with practiced motions. “And I suppose I should continue to call you nothing in particular.”

There’s useless shit everywhere, vases and boxes and scrolls and trinkets. A stupid move, to leave so much of yourself out on display. Or it could be a distraction, another show within a show. He’s starting to think he’s never really going to know, not with him. “Suoh. Suoh Mikoto.”

A chuckle, almost warm through the light. “How complementary.”

He can’t recall if it is or not--after a while, all Totsuka’s myths and stories weave together into one long string of fantastical bullshit Mikoto couldn’t afford to waste his time on, even though he’d end the first person who would dare say the same. But for some reason, he doesn’t want to admit that, out loud, give that long shadow any kind of advantage. So he stays quiet, studies how night passes outside one of the windows. It’s brighter, here--gonna be a bitch to fall asleep. He wonders if Anna is in bed yet, or if Totsuka still has her up, spinning another tale.

“I would offer you tea, if you had not made clear your disinclination at being served by another man.”

Funny, how he keeps talking despite saying things that no one in their right mind should reply to. Funnier, how Mikoto keeps doing just that. “Just you. Survival instincts.”

“And yet, here you are.” The glow moves out into the room, the shadow turns back into Munakata, oil lamp in hand. “One might call that hypocritical.”

He has to know what he looks like, the light in his face like that. The way he stands, the way he moves--the kind of person who’s aware of what others see, knows the precise cartography of his own body. It’s on purpose, it must be, and half of Mikoto wonders why the show exactly, the half that isn’t being completely distracted by how his sleeve spills back as he hangs the lamp on a hook, the angles of his profile against the cool blue of the room.

“Or, I just need a damn smoke.” Words ground him. He might be starting to understand why the other uses so many of them, and there’s a scary thought.

That infuriating smile is back, as he draws a new cigarette from his sleeve and puts it to the flame to light, and from that Mikoto knows what he’s going to pull. He catches the slender wrist, halfway to the pale curve of his lips. There’s the grin again, the one from the stage, and his eyes are silver behind the thin wisps of smoke.

“Is that truly all you need, Suoh Mikoto?”

Should’ve never told him his name, not if he says it like that, like he’s beckoning the blood from his veins, the breath from his lungs. Right from the start it’s been a one-sided fight, and Mikoto hates to lose--but he hates to lie even more, and that’s what it is, to think that ever since those first notes he wasn’t heading straight towards this. The only consolation is that the pulse beating under his thumb is as wrecked as his own, and the eyes are so much closer, chasing that thread of smoke drawing them right into--

There’s a knock on the door.

Munakata’s leaning too far in to freeze, but he tries anyways and ends up sort of tripping against Mikoto’s chest. Most ungraceful thing he’s seen him do, if the stage thing really was an act, and also kind of hilarious. He glares at him, but with his pupils blown wide as they are, it’s a lost cause. They’re back on common ground.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, finally, turning towards the door except Mikoto doesn’t feel like letting go just yet. The knocking continues. With a sigh, Munakata drags him along--he’s stronger than he looks, proven as he jerks free and shoves him behind the door before he opens it.

“Yes, Awashima-kun?”

The Diamond Queen’s voice has lost all its sultry breathiness, rings clear and no-nonsense as a bell. “Munakata-dono, are you sure you’re alright? I was worried, after--”

“Everything is fine, I assure you.” He opens the door wider, as if to make a point, driving the wood into Mikoto’s shoulder. “Have the negotiations with the Duke ended so soon?”

“Well, that’s just it.” There’s a beat of hesitation, the faint chime of her hair ornaments as she fidgets for the words. “I know we had planned for me to take point on this, however, the Duke, he--he is insistent upon seeing you.”

Mikoto starts up from the wall. “The hell?”

Munakata barely has the time to frown before the Diamond Queen sweeps into the room, _kanzashi_ clutched in her hand like a dagger. It takes her a moment to make him out in the shadows, but her eyes widen when she does. “You’re-- _yojimbo_ -san?”

“The bodyguard?” Some bizarre mix of horror and anger crosses like lightning over Munakata’s face, before it blanks back into the old smile. There’s an edge to it, this time; Mikoto feels like he’s going to shed some blood on it. “Yes, of course. He arrived a little while ago, also to convey the Duke’s entreaties and concerns for my well-being. I admit that the events have taken somewhat of an unexpected turn, but it is an oversight that is easily rectified. Please, let his Grace know that I will be joining him, shortly.”

The Diamond Queen--or, Awashima, now--does not look like she buys half the things coming out of her partner’s mouth. But she also looks smart enough to hold her tongue. She straightens, stiffly, and tucks the pin back into her hair. “I will see you in a little while then, Munakata-dono, _yojimbo_ -san.”

The door clicks closed and carefully measured steps move off down the hall. Munakata stares him down like one of those _youkai_ Totsuka’s so fond of--all gorgeous fury. “You did not deem it decorous to mention that you are the one Isana-san hired as the Duke’s protection, all this time?”

“You never asked.” It’s all starting to fall into place, making sense in ways that he doesn’t like. The endgame, for one. He straightens, level with the ice in those violet eyes. “Gonna tell me it matters, Munakata?”

He doesn’t think he really wants to know the answer to that, but there it is, hanging between them like the dying smoke. The anger drains from the other’s features, leaving them smooth and perfect as porcelain, a mask fixed back in place. If there was a chance in there for a straight answer, it’s gone now. “It certainly does, in light of this. I believe it is best for you to take your leave. You have a duty to attend to, as do I, and it would be courting disaster if the Duke were to develop suspicions as to our whereabouts.”

The words are back again, building up their walls as Munakata brushes by him, careful not to touch. Mikoto watches him crush the smoldering cigarette into the cup, take the lantern off the wall, hide behind his screens like a fortress. “Just like that, then?”

The voice from behind the _shoji_ is stripped down of all the allure, crisp and deep as a mountain well, striking right to the bone. “Unless you have managed to procure a massive amount of wealth on your journey here and simply enjoy moonlighting as the stalwart sellsword Totsuka-san has built you up to be, then yes, just like that. I trust that I needn’t remind you how many are relying upon the Duke’s good graces.”

Anna, waiting back in that old flat, surviving on hope and the stubborn little flame that Mikoto had recognized as kin to his own. Totsuka, Izumo--still, he can’t just walk away. Feels too much like running. “You do that show with everyone?”

“The Duke is not a man to be kept waiting, and I do not deign to repeat myself, _yojimbo_ -san.”

A clean severing of interest. He doesn’t know why he expected any different. The pressure is back, roiling like a storm trapped under his skin. His hand is on the doorknob when Munakata drags him back. “The story.”

“What?”

The silhouette is half-turned, looking for him through the thin paper. “Totsuka-san is writing a play, to garner the Duke’s investment. I thought--perhaps he has mentioned some of the details, to you, so that I may apprise his Grace of its merits.”

This is ridiculous. “Don’t know, never said anything, just that he had a job.”

“Well, then--”

The words come out of nowhere, punched out before he can stop them. “But knowing Totsuka, it’s about love.” Shit. He turns his eyes to the ceiling, to the door, anywhere but behind him as the old refrain keeps marching on. “Overcoming all obstacles.”

Munakata’s laugh reminds him of the  _daidai_  they used to filch on New Years', painfully bitter over his tongue. “That is perhaps one of the most inane sentiments I’ve heard in the entirety of my life.”

Mikoto twists the knob harder than he needs to. “Yeah, it is.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was hands-down the hardest chapter to write, and I apologize for any weird characterization. I'm more used to slow-burn type romances, so the whole love-at-first-sight thing that Moulin Rouge! has going on is a challenge. Plus keeping the pronouns in check, more or less. And Munakata's speech patterns. And Suoh's general...Suoh-ness.
> 
> I'm so touched by all your kind reviews; it's really great to have such talented writers and thoughtful readers giving positive feedback, and I appreciate you all taking the time to share your impressions! It really helped me get through the rough parts :)
> 
> Going out of town for the holidays, so the updates may start becoming a bit wonky, but I'll try to keep it to about a chapter a week. Thanks again for reading!


	4. Act 4: Elephant Love Medley

_“I’ll tell you a story,” Tatara said, to draw me away. I’d been watching it for so long, that pretty red gleaming like a firefly through the attic windows of the Damocles. I did not know it was their thread, not then._

_My first bed was a nest of piebald cushions and blankets made of old coats and cast-away clothes--but Tatara had made it for me, and that made it more than enough. He left one candle between us, painted pictures by the flame._

_Once upon a time lived a musician who loved a beautiful princess. He sang the cherry blossoms to flourish in her gardens each spring and none in the Floating World were more radiant, for they were born of his devotion. But the sakura's beauty lies in their delicate lives, and not even the sweetness of his voice could bid them stay beyond their season. The Lord of the Underworld came walking through the bowers to collect the fragile souls and there, by chance, was the princess, under the last of the ephemeral blooms. So lovely was she that he claimed her as well, spiriting her away to Yomi where the living dare not tread. None, save a gentle musician, who made of his song a sword and a light, and followed his love into the dark._

_Some of it was familiar, some of it was not. Tatara read everything and then tied up the pieces he liked into brilliant bouquets. This one he would throw over the crowds at the Damocles, if all went well that night. So many things were in motion, so many threads weaving so many dreams. Of course, I could not know, only pouted about princesses always ending up in some sort of distress._

_But Tatara considered my critiques gravely, as gravely as I felt them. “Well, Anna, I think that you are right. Maybe our princess should be more like you, fierce enough to cross oceans for her love.”_

_Our thread was still thin as flax, newborn and shivering--but it sparkled like the distant fireworks of autumn festivals, and I knew it would one day be strong as the one that bound me to Mikoto. Tatara put out the candle, and though the night had too much light in it, sleep crept in with the warmth._

_Though it did not stay very long._

 

\--

 

Munakata takes his sweet time showing up, probably on account of the elaborately-layered getup he’s wearing. If Mikoto didn’t know any better, he’d say the musician was trying to put as many silken shields in between him and the Duke as possible. Or maybe this is the hard-to-get angle, the old _oiran_ seduction trick. He’d already wasted the one card, on him.

Still can’t risk looking at that face; too much like testing a flayed nerve. Munakata doesn’t seem keen on eye contact, either, just fucking stands there, staring down the door like he’s staring down the hallway, like he’s forgotten how a door handle works or--

Oh. Unbelievable.

A pointless deadlock. Mikoto has half a mind to just leave--end the game, upend the table, set it all on fire. Nothing is worth this, except the last bits of the conversation running over in his head--how many people are relying on him. Them.

That--and _only_ that--is why he gives, reaches over and wrenches the door open. Munakata glides by without a glance, right through to the gold-leaf _fusuma_ of the Paper Room’s inner chamber. The last thing Mikoto sees is the ripple of embroidered _koi_ over the hard set of his shoulders, before the panels slide shut.

The sounds keep on, though--Awashima’s laugh, the eager catch of the Duke’s throat, the convoluted French. He could stalk the halls, again. Hell of a lot easier than to stand here, listen to the still-raw cadence of that voice. To know exactly how well it’s working.

But he’s never made a habit of running.

He won’t start now.

That’s all it is.

 

The taller candles have burned down to half when Awashima breezes out the door, shedding her dainty steps for brisk strides. Mikoto watches her disappear around a corner. Guess no one’s who they seem here, slipping off personalities as easy as they do their clothes.

Not that he’s listening any closer, now that only the two of them are in there. The Duke’s just getting louder, bolder, thinking it’s charm. Munakata is a steady murmur of encouragement--smiling, probably. Tilting his head. Doing that damn thing with his eyes.

The Duke laughs with too much breath, pinched around the edges. There are suggestions in it, in the drop of his voice--Mikoto doesn’t need to understand the words to _know_. Crawls right over his skin, feeds something that’s burning in the pit of his gut. If they start doing anything else but talking, he might put his fist through one of these beautifully painted walls. That the idea even crosses his mind means he must be losing it.

Whole lot like starving, come to think of it. Head’s the first thing to go, then your defenses are shot--cracks everywhere, widening with need. It hadn’t been easy, after Anna. The jobs took most of the edge off, dulled it down to something he’d thought he’d gotten under control. Right up until the music, anyways, creeping in so easily it was fucking depressing. Should never have been like that, and a world away it wouldn’t have. But at least now he knew. Hell, maybe he should even thank the bastard for finding the weak spot, sinking his claws in just enough to remind him of the dangers. Surface wounds, no lasting damage.

Of course, that’s when Munakata purrs something in the beckoning way he’d said his name, and Mikoto feels the bite of it through wood and paper, straight into the marrow of his bones.

 

One candle burns out before Awashima returns with an extravagant _sake_ spread and Izumo, presumably to set it all up. Doesn’t take too long, then he’s back out in the hallway, taking in the sorry state of his suit--new wrinkles set in by Mikoto’s slouching, ash dusting the sleeves. “Your first paycheck better be going to buying your own clothes to ruin.”

Mikoto smirks on reflex. There’s something solid about Izumo’s fussiness, like a compass pointing true north. The bartender grins back, claps a hand absently against his shoulder. “You’re okay.”

Could be a question, but he says it like a statement Mikoto can almost believe. Izumo is good at that, in his casual way. It’s why he’d gone first, with Totsuka, because the boy needed a tether or the city would eat him alive. Mikoto could survive on his own; they both knew it. Izumo had still bitched about leaving him, though, all the way to the goddamn boarding dock. His voice stayed for months after, rattling off every scathing, practical remark in Mikoto’s head. Keeping him going.

Izumo could probably straighten him out of all this, if there was time. But saying anything makes it some kind of true, so Mikoto shrugs, hopes those sharp eyes are just tired enough to take it at face value. Seems to work, helped along by a burst of laughter and a crack of glass from behind the door--easy smiles turn into a wince. “Shouldn’t be much longer. Not many go after the Sapphire King, but he’s a piece of work when he’s at it. Pretty much a sealed deal, lucky for you.”

He waves over his shoulder as he strolls back down the hall, and Mikoto lets his fists uncurl. The pocket lining feels stiff and creased against his fingers, probably permanently. Damn.

 

Awashima flits in and out of the room a few more times before coming back with Isana in tow. Must be the final act. About time.

Mikoto’s tired but Isana’s worse, walking exhaustion wrapped in a paper-thin skin. Yet he manages to break off a splinter of a smile as he passes. Those small kindnesses will cost him, but he probably knows that already, keeps at it. He’ll either die early or live too long--Mikoto could hedge a bet either way.

It’s getting easier to tune out the conversation, to concentrate on the weight of the day dragging over him. If he thinks about the drawn-out struggle of the past few months and just how wrong the city feels around him, then Munakata and whatever they were playing at is a minor thing. A slip. Kind of disastrous, in hindsight, since it’ll cost him a steady income, regardless of what Izumo thinks--he’s a loose end now, and someone like that so-called King doesn’t take chances. Not like he can’t find something else. He’d done it in Tokyo, he’d do it here.

He’s contemplating whether it would be easier to just pretend to be deaf rather than learn this nightmare of a language when Awashima steps out and takes position on the other side of the door. She stands like a soldier, arms clasped behind her back and eyes straight ahead. Mikoto talks to her simply because she seems dead set on ignoring him. “Not a huge need for reinforcements.”

Her eyebrow twitches. When she actually replies, it’s clearly out of her own frustration. “The Duke is of the mind that business is not to be discussed in the presence of women.”

He snorts. “You guys picked a winner.”

“I’m sorry, you seem to be operating under the impression that choice is a deciding factor in these matters,” she says, finally looking over at him. “You could stand to be a little more professional, _yojimbo_ -san.”

The words echo the elegant rhythm of her partner’s, and that’s dangerous. Not the same fire, but close enough to draw him in. “I’m not the one putting on a show.”

“Munakata-dono and I do what is necessary for the sake of everyone involved in this theatre.” She’s got eyes like pale lightning, flashing behind the shimmer caking her lids. “He is in there right now to ensure Totsuka-san and Izu--Kusanagi-san do not go hungry, and I feel it is the least you could do to perhaps show the same sense of duty. Especially to those you call friends.”

Talking like she knows anything about them, but maybe she does. He grins in the face of her lecture. “Izumo, huh?”

To her credit, she colors only slightly, looking away and crossing her arms over her chest. “Honestly, I don’t know why Munakata-dono even bothered convincing his Grace of the necessity of your position, when you clearly don’t care to keep it.”

It takes him a moment to process that, another to try and believe it. “What?”

She starts at the sharpness of his voice, studies him half out of surprise. “The Duke had some reservations about your suitability, but Munakata-dono insisted--” She stops, like she’s figured something out, then seals it behind the thin line of her lips. “Regardless, you will be in service to the Duke here at the Damocles, so I suggest you start learning how to act your part.”

He’d snap something back at her or press for more, sudden hunger in the sharp twist in his gut, but the door bangs open and Isana is fawning so much he practically falls out into the hallway. Awashima softens into loose limbs and fluttering lashes. There’s the Duke, Munakata at his side, and Mikoto makes the mistake of thinking it’s alright to look at him, that he’s sorted it all out.

It’s not.

One look and he’s back in the room, the light on his face and smoke in his eyes. One look and Totsuka’s words flood his head, stories of Amaterasu in all her glory, burning the world bright. One look and he knows somehow, beyond all reason, that he is _fucked_ \--doesn’t matter what he does, what he says, what he thinks--it was true then, and it’s true now. One look.

But Munakata’s eyes are on the Duke, and they don't stray.

 

He does his job well when he cares to. It’s not hard to straighten up, to shadow someone’s steps, to watch everything. A good distraction, keeps him from thinking too hard.

The Duke has taken off his mask, but there’s still something fox-like about his face. Not those noble ones in Tostuka’s imagination, but the ones Mikoto’s seen lingering on the edges of old battlefields. Scavengers with half-mad eyes. It’s there in the growl of his r’s and the whine of his vowels, in how his fingers claw when they touch.

It'd be easier, maybe, if he was plain ugly, but the feral thing hovers beneath well-made features, because his life is a joke.

Whatever else he is, Munakata’s not an idiot, can probably sense the teeth as easily as Mikoto does. He bares calculated points of contact as they make their way back through the theatre--the lines of his throat, his wrists and arms, the edge of his smile as he leans in to private conversations. The Duke lunges, every time, but his hands catch on silk and air and the promise of more. Like watching a goddamn master class, and Mikoto can sort of appreciate how good Munakata is at his games when they’re not turned on him. He thinks.

It’s late, late enough that only the desperate few are left, mingling with the backstage workers flooding Izumo’s bar in droves. The bartender’s Kansai accent snaps through the air like a whip; still don't know where he’d picked it up, but it works wonders to control a crowd. They pass with little fuss, even in their current company.

Awashima takes her leave at the doorway, bowing low and gracefully, murmuring a string of thank you’s and goodnight’s. Leaves the four of them stranded, waiting for the Duke’s carriage to pull up. Isana's saying something that involves a lot of numbers, something that his patron isn’t paying attention to at all, not when Munakata goes up like a candle under the lantern lights. The noble’s planning something, Mikoto can feel it--same instinct from the balcony. But his job is to keep his eyes on the street, on the shadows clogging the avenues.

Not long before the the carriage clatters in and the Duke makes his move. He clasps Isana’s hand only briefly before he’s whirling around, seizing Munakata by the shoulders. Mikoto stops himself shy of reaching over and possibly breaking those grasping fingers. It’s that French thing, the greeting Totsuka had done on him, apparently a goodbye as well.

A perfect excuse.

He makes a show of it, all hunger and triumph. The silk gives beneath his seeking grip, his lips linger far too long and far too close. Mikoto feels his jaw clench, but Munakata remains poised, unmoved as the Duke draws back to bury his face against the opposite cheek, and that’s when--

Their eyes meet, for the first time since the room and the smoke and the almosts. Just a sideways glance, by accident or afterthought--except he holds it like a lifeline, as he leans into the Duke’s embrace. The broad shoulders jerk in surprise, and Mikoto knows the thrill that’s running through those tangled veins, the same quiet thrill that feels dangerously like hope.

The Duke pulls away, smug and still starving, and Munakata’s eyes dart back to him like they never left. He swings himself up into the open door, leans out the window as he’s driven off. “ _À demain, roi de mon couer!”_

Munakata says nothing, only bows back under the awning. Mikoto watches the carriage disappear into the busy streets, then Isana’s at his side. “Good job, Suoh-san. I don’t think we could have managed without you.”

Mikoto shrugs, because he knows that’s bullshit but Isana’s got this odd need to draw everyone into his little family. He’s probably considered a part of it now, anyways, thanks to Totsuka, Izumo. Munakata. “Congratulations on the show.”

Isana beams so brightly he almost outshines the lights. “I should let everyone know the good news.” His face falls a bit. “Though, it’s so late, and they’ll want to celebrate--ah, well, it isn’t as if this city sleeps, in any case. You are, of course, welcome to join, but I know it’s been a long day.”

Munakata has disappeared, sometime during their quick exchange. An easy out. Mikoto can call it square, take the job and leave it at that. He can go back inside, meet Izumo at the bar, find a straightforward outlet for that dangerous need--plenty of pretty bodies in there, with prices he can afford. Or he can go back to the flat, check in on Anna, let Totsuka know he better write one hell of a play, finally get a good night’s sleep.

Yeah, that’s probably how it should go.

“Sorry,” he says. “Got somewhere to be.”

Isana looks a bit taken aback, but he nods. “Good night, then, Suoh-san.”

He joins the stream of bodies making their way along the street, looks back once to see Isana wave and then slip back into the theater's glow.

 

\--

 

_Mikoto taught me to sleep lightly, and Tatara has never been any good at being sneaky. The light would have woken me up anyways--it would be some time before I'd learn to live with it._

_I made him bring me along, up to the roof where a huge party sprawled beneath the stars. So many people, silk and lace and laughter that glittered like their jewels. All the light had spilled from the Damocles to pool here in joyous revelry. It had worked. There would be a play, a grand spectacle unlike anything they’d done before. There would be money, and work, a hundred new kimonos and full bottles in the bar--so they’d finish what was left tonight, to make room for the promise of tomorrow._

_Tatara is spun away on broad shoulders, buoyed up with rough cheers and tender gratitude. I should’ve been frightened, perhaps. These entertainers were so different, more fantasy than flesh, but they spoke in my tongue and my heart ached to hear it again. I was not alone for long, though. Izumo was there, pouring a drink for a woman carved out of fine marble, but he came over the moment he saw me, put his hand on my head for the very first time._

_“You should be sleeping, Anna-chan.”_

_I knew this, but here was more beautiful than any dream I would have, and if all the Damocles had come out to play, maybe I could find Mikoto, too. I told him as much. He smiled and led me to meet the Diamond Queen._

_One day, I will know them all. The young man with bright chestnut hair, speaking Japanese oddly and loudly and nearly falling off the roof whenever a pretty girl brushed by, and the bear-like man who pulled him back each time. Another wore the most beautiful kimono I’d ever seen, but he stood off by himself, wrapped in a longing I knew all too well. Yet a persistent cluster of musicians remained nearby, all clothed in blue, tangled up with men who wore hard labor on their arms and fierce humor on their faces. The women in their kimono and dresses flitted through like hummingbirds--only the Diamond Queen stood apart, her eyes straying ever so often to the empty castle of the Damocles._

_I settled in a corner, curled up against a girl who called herself a cat and spoke without needing me to listen. It was nice, just to hear the rhythm and know I had not forgotten. I wondered when Mikoto would come, the crowds parting around him like they always did. I had so many things to tell him._

_I fell asleep long before I could._

 

\--

 

“You still owe me a smoke.”

It’d taken him too many wrong turns and dead ends to find the alley he’d seen outside the window, but it’s kind of worth it to see the look on Munakata’s face. And to learn that he apparently wears glasses that make him look less like a fairy-tale prince and more like one of those stuffy tax collectors. “What are you doing here?”

“Just said.” Mikoto grins up. “Clarity, and all.”

Munakata still looks like he can’t quite believe this is happening, but Mikoto can’t either, really. He’ll blame it on the lack of sleep, weakening him to sudden impulses.

“You must be out of your mind.” Those slender fingers curl around the latch of the window, halfway to a decision. “It would be an insult to the leaves, tossing them out of a window at the mercy of your reflexes.”

“Alright, then.” Mikoto takes a step back. “I’m coming up.”

“You are--wait--!”

It’s easy enough to vault onto the first balcony railing, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find that the slender iron bars can actually take his weight. From then it’s just a matter of swinging up, following the frantic, hissed jumble of Japanese and French that Munakata’s throwing his way. His shoulders burn, but it’s a clean one--he’s spent too long standing still, caged up. It’s good to do something reckless. Something true.

Doesn’t take him long at all, to end up here, balanced on the thin edge of the sill. His body sings with adrenaline, feeding the rush of his heart, a rush that doubles as Munakata grabs his jacket and hauls him into the room.

“Have you any idea, any thought to the consequences of that asinine stunt--you could have been _killed_.” His face is pale against the odd flush staining high on his cheeks. “I have never in my life been subject to someone so aggravating, so utterly--”

Mikoto never gets to find out, the next words swallowed up in a sudden, shuddering gasp. It’s reflex to pull him in, as the grip on his collar loosens and those violet eyes lose their focus. “Oi, Munakata!”

They’re too long, the still moments before the other can drag breath back into his lungs. His shoulder trembles like a drawn kite under Mikoto’s palm, but he pushes away, stubbornly. “I am _fine_.”

“See, when you cut that wordy bullshit, it almost sounds true.”

It doesn’t, not at all, but Munakata’s putting up walls again, he can tell by the way he stiffens. “Well, that hardly matters in addressing the question of why you’ve gone through such great lengths to disturb my peace at this ungodly hour of the night.”

Izumo was right--this guy is something else, and Mikoto is going to find out exactly what. “Listen half as well as you talk, you’d know.”

Good to see his eyes come alive again, even if it’s with a glare that wants to push him back out the window. He turns, starts back toward his corner, still the only point of light in the room. “I shall have to procure more of this tobacco, seeing that it is enticing enough to incur a death wish.”

Mikoto follows him, this time, just to see what he has hiding behind his fragile screens. The writing desk is smaller than its shadow, a simple collection of drawers. An ink stone, brushes, a sheaf of papers, pens in wells. Munakata glances at him, over his shoulder. “If you would not mind.”

 _Stay there, this is the line._ Fair enough. So Mikoto stays right at the border, lets his eyes trace the dim outlines past the desk. Raised _tatami_ floor, walls bare save for a few simple paintings, the complete opposite of the chaos outside. The candle flickers, catches blue on the scabbard of what looks like some kind of long blade, tucked away in the shadows.

Now that’s interesting.

“There are much easier ways of acquiring a cigarette, you know.” Munakata’s fingers are quick--there are three neat cylinders lined up on the dark wood, and his eyes are carefully trained on making the fourth. Mikoto shrugs. Now or never.

“Awashima said I owe you for the job, figured I say thanks.”

Only a brief stutter, a few dark leaves broken away from their neat line. He doesn’t lift his gaze from the desk. “It seemed--unnecessary, that you should be deprived of an opportunity due to a--miscalculation, on my part. Totsuka-san speaks very highly of you, and though I may not share his enthusiasm, I understand how difficult it is to start again.”

He lifts the cigarette to his mouth, wets the paper edge against the line of his bottom lip. Heat cracks along Mikoto’s spine, purrs against his core. “Miscalculation, huh.”

“It does not happen often,” Munakata huffs, frowning down at the papers like they’re the ones to blame. “You do not wear your line of work as I have seen others do, and I assumed--regardless, I had no intention of leading you on, and I hope we can maintain a cordial relation in respect to our mutual professional interests.”

He’s drawing back again. Like hell. “Sure got a lot of confidence in how well you play your game.”

“Well, the ludicrous fact that you have just scaled roughly three stories in the middle of the night to reach my private quarters on the pretense of a few ounces of tobacco seems to merit it.” Munakata faces him, finally, his expression trained in cool dismissal. “I would rather dispel any fantastic notion you may have of what the events of tonight may mean. We are not characters in one of Totsuka-san’s maudlin romances.”

“No, we’re not.” He’s done with letting the other set the rules here, rules he can’t even follow. He knows it when he steps over that invisible line, and the musician does nothing to stop him. “Think we both know that. Think we also both know where you’re looking, when you’re supposed to be keeping your eyes somewhere else.”

Munakata flinches, slightly, like the honesty burns, fixes upon the disappearing distance between them. “Do not flatter yourself.”

“Seeing that I’m right here, in the middle of the night, instead of a splatter on the street seems to merit it.” They’re as close as they were at the window. No Awashima, this time, and no more excuses. “S’the problem with words, Munakata. You got a lot of them, but they're all pretty empty.”

There’s nowhere to go, the desk at his back, Mikoto’s arms braced on either side. He could break, if he wanted to, there’s no doubting that. But he just closes his eyes, sighs something like a surrender. “This will cost you, Suoh Mikoto.”

The name was the first thing Totsuka had given him, little more than a necessity. It’s never felt that real to him, until tonight. “I’ll start a tab.”

“That is _not_ \--”

More of a collision than any kind of kiss, because Mikoto’s never been gentle and it’s been too long to even try. The mouth under his parts in surprise rather than desire, but he’ll take what he gets, take all of that wet, breathless space. Munakata tastes like smoke and tea, the sweet burn of _sake_ cut with something faintly rich and bitter that reminds him of the sword in the dark--but he can’t place it, doesn’t care too, only needs so much _more_ , lapping over slick heat of his tongue.

Munakata breathes out in a stuttered moan, a raw sound searing down Mikoto’s throat and threading a molten pulse through every taut nerve. There are fingers clenched in his hair, digging into the dips of his spine, like he’s trying to play the strings of his body, make sense of their chaotic melody. Mikoto grins against the lips suddenly flush against his own--typical, even now, he never lets up. He knots a hand against the small of his back, the silk like fevered skin curling in his grip, pushes closer until his knee hits the desk and there’s nowhere else to go but down.

He’s vaguely aware of things hitting the floor, a soft rain of paper and the clatter of pens. The heavy thump is the candle, sputtering out in the fall. That’s fine.

Mikoto has all the light he needs, right here.

 

It’s later, on the hazy edge of sleep, that he remembers what it is, that taste like heavy salt. He’d first had it on the docks, barely more than a kid up against three guys who thought age made them men. An easy win, but not before a cheap shot split his lip, flooded his mouth with blood. That’s what it’d been, the tang beneath the heat.

Munakata’s breathing is even, soft. Mikoto reaches over, runs a thumb lightly along the bare throat to rest against the beginnings of a pale bruise where the pulse beats. Steady, now--it’d stuttered beneath his lips, the scrape of his teeth, before Munakata had wrenched away. _No marks._ Not on him, anyways. There are raw lines down Mikoto’s back, but he’s not the one who has to hide.

Too late for regret, not that there’s any to be had in the heady calm buzzing along his limbs. But he’s got to be up and gone by sunrise, which means this--this is borrowed time. He tries not to think about the length of it, drapes an arm around the slim waist and draws it against him. Munakata curls into his touch, for once, sleep taking down the last of his defenses. Mikoto closes his eyes.

His dreams are red, warm copper on his tongue and fire at his back, but he’ll forget them come morning. He’s not like Totsuka, chasing meaning where there isn’t any, not when the world’s out there and eager for blood.

Tomorrow, the real show will start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry it's taken so long to post! The holidays were a lot more hectic than I'd expected, and then my muse had to deal a bit with the end of the second season. Thank you to anyone still hanging around--you all are great.
> 
> This one ended up being really long, so hopefully that makes up for it a little. The next couple chapters will probably be more in this sort of choppy style, as the movie starts throwing scenes and time jumps together--I hope it's not too jarring of a transition. Also, I discovered that writing intimacy kills me--please excuse all the weirdness as I hopefully figure it out.
> 
> As always, your comments are wonderful and beyond helpful--I'll get on replying to them soon :)


	5. Act 5: Spectacular, Spectacular

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as a head's up, there's smut in this one. It is not my strong point. /hides/

_The Damocles was a different creature in the daylight, when I was allowed to come inside. An old, tired building, still unsure of who or where it was. The ghosts of mice nested in the walls, shadows in the dusty corners. Tatami mats, paper screens, lanterns, lounge chaises and tables had all been put away, leaving the interior bare-boned and blushing at the morning sun. But not empty, and I think that is why I loved it, why I still do. The threads filled the air like rose attar, a labyrinth-lace of scarlet strung between every soul who’d passed through the open doors, who’d unraveled their passions in the hidden rooms and backstage spaces. I stood in the midst of a trembling heart, so like my own that I could not help but fall._

_Nowhere else could Tatara’s words flourish, could Shiro’s visions fruit and flower. Nowhere else could any of us hope to live as we did, caught between worlds, balancing on such fragile dreams._

_Nowhere else could they have met, could I peek out from behind the curtain and see the thread formed bright and beating between them--thin as a silk strand, but the most beautiful red I’d ever seen. But the man from last night is there too, no mask but ever the same, and his heart has no strings, only hunger as yawning as the sea._

_Nowhere else could their story have been written._

_Nowhere but here._

\--

“This, _minna-san_ , is a story about love!”

There are longing sighs and delighted giggles from the _maiko_ and _geisha_ \--and a few of the fresher-faced musicians--as Totsuka darts through the assembled troupe, flinging out handfuls of paper from pile clutched in his arms. Eager clusters form and scuffle over the copies--not quite enough to go around, printing must be expensive--and Mikoto feels an odd skip in his chest. Words are treasured here, stories and the people who make them. He’d done the right thing, putting him on that ship before the docks killed off what was left. It’d been close.

Damn, he owed Isana a _lot_ more than he’d thought.

One of the musicians plucks a copy off the top, flips through with a grin. “Aw, come on, Totsuka-kun, can’t you give us an epic for once?”

“Or a tragic drama--Monsieur Alain took me to see _Macbeth_ just the other week, it was marvelous!”

“But you didn’t even understand half of it, Sumika-chan!”

“I’m so jealous--”

The banter’s easy, the teasing without any real bite. Totsuka laughs along as he makes his way through the crowd. “Oh, but it is an epic, and a drama, for what war is more noble that the fight for your heart’s desire, what tragedy more heartfelt than the separation between destined lovers? Think Hikoboshi-sama and Orihime-sama, Romeo and Juliet, Eros and Psyche!”

The last four scripts go to their set-off corner--the Jewels, Isana, and The Duke. Totsuka curbs his natural enthusiasm, handing out the papers with a fixed smile and halting bows. Mikoto can tell he’s trying not to look over at him, but he gives up after passing out the final pages. It’s that stupid happy look that wants to vault over the chairs, and Mikoto’s half-worried he might actually do it--give in and throw his arms around him like he’d done when they’d first showed up on his doorstep. But he’s gotten a little bit wiser, here, maybe, leaves it at a grin and whirls back to the stage. Good. Mikoto doesn’t need someone like the Duke having anything on him--Izumo’s sleeping off his late night back at the flat, and Anna--

He can just make out a hint of white hair at the edge of the curtain, slipping out of sight as one of the stagehands steps aside to let Totsuka clamber up. She should’ve stayed back with Izumo. He’d told her to stay back with Izumo. But she’d gotten stubborn in that way of hers, and Totsuka had taken her side which--wasn’t completely unexpected, but still annoying as hell. He’d guaranteed she’d be better off here, that she’d made enough of an impression on the rooftop for the troupe to fold her into its heart, keep her secret.

Turns out they'd both had an interesting night.

“Freedom, beauty, truth and love--the inspirations of the glorious Bohemian Revolution sweeping this city!” Totsuka looks oddly at home up there, even with the stage crew gathered at his back like a gang. That’s probably a little bit his fault. “I wrote this piece to be our contribution to that bold spirit, and it goes like this.”

He gets the gist of it--princess, cherry blossoms, childhood sweethearts and fated meetings--and that’s more than enough. Not that Totsuka’s French is difficult to follow, only he’s heard the thread of the story countless times and it still fails to get him. Doesn’t really matter though, not when everyone else is leaning in with each word, even the Duke, straightlaced Awashima. Munakata.

They haven’t shared more than a passing glance all morning, not since he’d been dragged out of bed and down an entirely different set of back passages he’d been too out of to remember. A hazy half-memory--cool grip around his wrist, the cut of straight shoulders through the gray dawn. Mist in the alley, curling through the doorway--another cough, light and sudden. Mikoto’s palm against the curve of his neck, thumb running the counterpoint line, chasing the flush up to skirt the angle of his jaw, tipping it just so--

Hands on his chest, shoving him away and awake.

 _“Just go._ ”

“--and he had hoped it was just a dream, but alas, he finds it’s all too true! The kingdom mourns their princess, stolen away to Yomi in the dead of night--”

And here they were, like last night hadn’t happened. Hell, it almost feels like it didn’t, the whole surreal mess of the Damocles lingering behind his eyes like an intense fever dream. But the scores on his back ache with a not-quite pain, each time he shifts, and Munakata’s wearing a high-collar shirt buttoned tight and close against his throat. Besides, he’s never been particularly creative when it came to fantasies--that’s all Totsuka.

“--a land of illusions, shades and shadows, where one can never be sure--”

Maybe that was that. He’d gotten what he’d wanted--that urgent pressure's gone, banked back to the steady burn he’s used to. There hadn’t been any talk of making a habit of it. Little talk at all, if he remembers right. Makes sense--Munakata’s got his act to do with the Duke, and it isn’t as if they’ve fallen in love or some ridiculous shit like that.

“--but it grows unbidden, sometimes, in the unlikeliest of places. Even as she guides her lover to her through his dreams, the princess finds herself softening to the strange lord who keeps her, who seems so lonely amongst the lost souls that fill his kingdom--”

The Duke leans over, bracing a hand against the back of Munakata’s chair, reading from his script even though he’s got his own rolled up in his lap. He mutters something, the close breath stirring through the strands of dark hair. Mikoto’s hands remember the feel of it, weirdly liquid, like ink slipping under his grasp, staining memory into his skin. Cool fingers and heated lips--his body remembers, and the fire surges, a slow, sultry flicker instead of the lightning burst, but no less telling.

Shit.

“--it’s a choice she must make, between the two halves of her heart. It is not an easy thing, and it will change her, either way--”

They need to settle this, whatever it is. End it, or--well, there wouldn’t be an ‘or’. This morning had made that pretty clear. Still, Mikoto needs to hear the words. Assumptions landed him this headache in the first place, and he’s had his fill of roundabout games.

“--she returns with her musician, whom she has always loved so truly and fiercely, who had fought for her freedom above all else. But she keeps in her the strength and wisdom that she learned there in the darkness, and walks beneath her blossoms without fear. Even, perhaps, with a little hope--each spring, and forevermore.”

Applause scatters like firecrackers through the air, starting him from his thoughts. If Munakata noticed his staring at all, there’s no sign, just Awashima sending an arrow-quick glare over her shoulder-- _your job, yojimbo-san_. He sweeps the audience, but there’s little need--he’d seen half of them on his way back to the flat, helped Izumo kick the rest off the roof when he got there. They’ve had some time to settle into their hangovers, but assassination is still probably the farthest thing from their minds, and probably not the guy who’s got them wrapped up in his purse strings.

Totsuka’s flushed and starry-eyed on the stage, shaking under the rain of shoulder claps from the stage crew. He really has found his place. “I hoped you all would enjoy it.”

“Lucky us, our very own Shakespeare, romance or not. Look, Yata’s even crying!”

“ _Ta geule_ _connard_ , I am not!”

“Maa, maa.” They settle down almost instantly. “Well, that’s the story so far. Now there are plenty of parts to go around, though the roles of Sakurako-hime and the Lord were written for our dear Queen and King, of course.”

Small rebellion at that from the _geisha_ corner, but that bored _oiran_ clicks his tongue and cuts it dead. Totsuka shoots him a grateful glance. “They’ll need understudies, though, and our hero Uguisu has yet to be cast. So please, everyone, study the story, find the lines that speak to you, and do your best as we sort out the players in the next couple days, alright?” He spreads his hands. “With a little luck, we’ll have enough of a cast together to rehearse the first few scenes for his Grace upon his return, as he’s so graciously agreed to grant us his artistic involvement along with his patronage.”

He says it with a smile and a gleeful clap of his hands, but Mikoto’s spent years seeing through his charades. Totsuka puts too much of himself in everything he does--that’s what sets it apart, but it also means the Duke has his claws in him, too, right where it counts. A risk, a price he can’t afford, fire or no. Munakata probably knows it too, better than him, even--Awashima’d said as much. He just needs to say the words, set it in stone. Then they can both get on with their roles.

It’s decided, on the way to Isana’s office. It’s decided, when the door closes and leaves the two of them standing in the narrow hallway. It’s decided, right until Munakata twists his fingers into his shirt and presses against him in one lean line of intent.

Thought he’d had some idea of where this was going. Hadn’t been moulding gouging between his shoulder blades and just enough forethought to grab for the doorknob, hold it still. The kiss is all last night’s clumsy fury, and Mikoto had sort of thought Munakata would’ve been better at it being a courtesan or whatever and then his tongue prises between his teeth and flicks up against the roof of his mouth and _fuck_ he’s glad the walls are thick here. They’re in there, Isana and the Duke. Perusing paperwork. Any minute they could--

The other breaks away with a gasp, almost like he can read his mind. Doesn’t push away this time, just closes his eyes, leans in till their foreheads touch. “You are utterly impossible.”

Mikoto huffs something like a laugh, brings his free hand up to tangle into those infuriatingly slippery strands. “Could say the same about you.”

“This is the very definition of inadvisable.”

“Yeah, can’t argue with that.”

Inevitable, the way they keep coming together. Reminds him of the old adages, harbor wisdom--red skies and rough seas, the cycle of summer storms chasing seasons of drought. Feels like that, can’t say why, only he’s kind of an idiot for thinking one night and a few words would settle it. Munakata’s a bigger one, still trying to fight, losing terribly by how his body sinks against him like the tide.

Raised voices filter from behind the door, nothing particularly angry, just loud. Violet eyes flick open. “Tonight.”

He can pack a hell of a lot of meaning into one word, makes him wonder why he bothers using ten too many, most of the time. Or maybe he knows, how that direct desire hits him like a shot of Izumo’s best and blanks out all thought of consequence. “Here?”

“Where else?” And there’s some soft bite in that, but Munakata’s gone before he can think too hard on it, leaving him with a wrinkled shirt and skipping thoughts, the imprint of the handle cut into his palm like a promise.

 

Tonight is the last night for the Damocles to be a pleasure house. The Duke’s gone off to his country estate to settle up some business, and when he gets back, well, they’ll be a theatre then. A real one.

Word spreads quick, somehow, and nightfall brings a horde that makes last night’s chaos seem like a civilized tea ceremony. There are people pressed into every corner and every eave, more clamoring at the door and choking the streets. The music’s swallowed up under shouting matches and drunken declarations, and Mikoto’s lost track of how many couples he’s had to kick out of the backstage pits. The copper-haired kid who runs the stage crew--who he remembers might’ve tried to fight him this morning on the roof--now looks at him like he’s some kind of godsend, and that’s really the last thing he needs, the beginning of another tie.

But there’s no time to think about it, as the performances pile up and the rigging and crew start to buckle under the pressure. It’s probably why Isana hadn’t really questioned that he’d strolled in with Izumo even though his charge wasn’t even there, just broke into a relieved smile and sent him where hands were needed most. Too trusting--he might be taking some advantage of that. He doesn’t know shit about stage work, but the docks taught him how to pull and climb along with the rest of it, and the steady rush of hard labor evens out the anticipation that’s been hounding him since the hallway, winding him tense at every turn.

The ropes catch somewhere up above, and he’s the first one to reach the mess, sort it out. Stage gossip follows him, the familiar tongue sharpened against the noise.

“--fast, sorta like having Fushimi-kun back, huh?”

“Don’t talk to me ‘bout that damn monkey, now we got the Jewels coming up in a bit--”

“--back outside, Mari! _Mon dieu_ , they’re all acting like they’ll never see each other again--”

“--Isana said they can still take clients if they want, just not in here--”

“--most, the King’s off the table for sure--”

“Shit, means we gotta watch it when they get on--ah, Mikoto-san, I think you got it!”

He descends to Isana’s familiar introduction, knows that he’s added the ‘final performance’ bit when the crowd howls like a dying animal, strong enough that he has to brace himself against the shaky ladder till it passes. Gives him the chance to enjoy the view, moreso when he catches sight of Munakata waiting in the wings, _koto_ tucked under the sleeves of yet another stunningly impractical costume. Stiff as ever. He’ll have to fix that, he thinks, and lets go.

It’s not a huge drop, but the kid still yelps when he lands beside him, blinks as he straightens up, hands in his pockets. Munakata’s giving him a sidelong glance, like he’s questioning every decision he’s ever made, and that makes him grin even wider, shake off the aftershocks of the impact with a slow, deliberate roll of his shoulders. There it is--the caught breath, the faintest reflection of a smile, right before the curtain and the dark.

He still plays perfectly, those chords and melodies, but tonight there’s a rawness, a fire that licks after each note of rain. Mikoto feels it in the marks down his back, tugging his blood down different currents altogether as the strings swell instead of soothe. The kid curses softly and kind of breathlessly, and he doesn’t need to look over to know he’s probably turned as red as his hair. Damn.

Guess he hasn’t been the only one waiting, after all.

 

They end up in the Paper Room, of all places, spread out under the gaze of a hundred painted eyes. Mikoto would consider it creepy, only he can’t much process anything except Munakata’s mouth moving over the length of him, each half-formed sound stringing the arch of his spine tighter. Gold swims across his vision--ink-scratch branches, bursts of color that could be birds or flowers--and that must be why they made this room because if he looks down at the other, all the gorgeous mess he’s made of him, then he just might--

The hint of teeth jolts him up, and the violet eyes are just a little wicked behind the lashes, one pale hand braced against his thigh and the other working under the snarl of silk. There hadn’t been patience, to get them all off, and Mikoto reaches out again, to help or to finish or just to touch, but Munakata bats him away, takes him deeper and _purrs_ in a way that makes the room go hazy and his head fall back.

“Fuck, Munakata.” The syllables crowd his mouth--too many, like an awkward prayer, and there’s a breath of laughter before he lets him go, draws himself up and over him like a wave.

“In time, Suoh.”

He locks his long, clever fingers around them, strokes like he knows the rhythm of the heat surging at Mikoto’s core and pooling lower. Doesn’t take long, not with the friction and the catch of the calloused grip and the way Munakata just looks at him with that intense focus and just a hint of disbelief--makes him reach up and pull their mouths together, drown in the groan of his release as the world burns to white.

It comes back in pieces, the familiar feel of _tatami_ against his back, the lanterns swaying from lacquered beams, the sounds of pleasure leaking in from other rooms. For a minute he’s back in Tokyo and nothing’s changed, but if he was then--he turns his head, takes in the sight of Munakata flushed and breathless on his arm. Yeah, in Tokyo this would never happen, and the crazy thought flashes through his head that maybe it’s worth his leaving.

“Your idiotic smirking is making my stomach turn.” The other composes himself too damn quickly, sitting up and rummaging around in the ruin of his sleeves. He pulls out a small cloth, somehow--tricks of the trade.

Mikoto draws himself up on his elbows. “So, this it then?”

He’s quiet for so long he thinks it might be, wiping the mess of them off his hands with practical ease. “That would be the most appropriate course of action,” he begins, puts him back in the alley outside a closed door, but then he looks over, smiles thin and true. “But the prospect of having to face your pathetic brooding each day is simply unbearable. Can you not even try to be discreet?”

Too many words, again, to say something so simple, but Mikoto can let him have that for now. “If discreet is you jumping me right outside Isana’s office, I think I can manage.”

The handkerchief hits him in the face. “Clean yourself up, you brute.”

 

Staying twice in a row violates some unspoken rule they've got to follow, so his night ends on the couch back at the flat, watching the windows of the Damocles go out one by one. Maybe it’s for the best. His thoughts are clearer, out from under the music and the lights. Heavier, too.

“Mikoto.”

Anna’s sitting up in that disaster of a bed, eyes wide and solemn in the dark. Sometimes he’d forget how easy she wakes up, even when he’s near. Strange kid. But he doesn’t shake her off when she comes over, latches onto his arm, follows the path of his gaze. Totsuka had mentioned something about how she wouldn’t come away last night, just stared the lights down. But that’s Anna, always watching, seeing too much.

She’s still for a long time, kneeling by the couch with her head on his elbow, until he thinks she’s fallen asleep--they’d gotten rest where it would take them, learned to deal with awkward positions. But then she turns, looks him dead in the eye. “Be careful.”

He’s never seen real fear in her. Not when they led her to him out of that dark shack and he half-considered taking a little more blood that day, when she looked at him like she knew. Not when she’d taken his hands in hers, each time, even with the remnants of his work slick under his nails and the cracks in his palms. Not on the ship, taking the blame for each storm until she’d shrunk herself into a shadow. All that, and he’s never seen anything like the small flicker worrying the quiet in her eyes.

She can’t know--she’s still a kid, after all, and maybe it’s something else entirely. But he’s kind of shit at understanding her anywhere above bone deep, so he flicks her forehead and pulls her up into the narrow space at his side. “Fine. Go to sleep.”

He wonders if it’s enough. She curls her fingertips against the beat of his heart and sighs deeply, like she’d held ít all day.

 

\--

 

They are careful. Munakata’s probably had more than enough practice with hiding things, and he just has to remember that look in Anna’s eyes to follow suit. A little easier now, even, the certainty of their ‘understanding’ like stepping onto land after the months at sea--uncharted territory, but solid, if nothing else.

Isana still doesn’t care that he shows up when he’s not needed, treats him and Anna like they’ve always had a place under the Damocles’ shaky roof. He’s too busy with Totsuka and the endless auditions to pay much attention, anyways, and there’s no shortage of work to be done backstage. The Duke’s investment includes a rehaul of the entire aging setup and the kid-- _”Call me Yata.”_ \--needs all the help he can get. Today it’s a sudden shipment of building materials needing storage, so Mikoto joins the stream of stagehands lugging lumber on and off the stage, dodging performers as they go.

They’re not half-bad, as a whole, and he can see the little bits of why Isana had chosen each of them, what he’d meant them to be. The words are easy to slip into, and to understand, oddly enough, even when he’s only half-paying attention. Minor roles, the same scene changing with each new actor. Totsuka’s excited as ever, jumping in and out of his seat, pulling himself on stage and shuffling the performers around like _shogi_ pieces. Isana takes notes, fixes them all with his serene little smiles and steadies the more outlandish ideas.

“Alright!” Totsuka dives off stage and over to the worn piano, banging out a few testy notes before casting his eyes to the back of the milling crowd. “Awashima-san, Munakata-san, if you wouldn’t mind giving us a few lines from the garden scene and the first duet? I’d like to see it played out, and give something for our understudies to follow.”

That brings everything to a halt, and the troupe gives way for the pair to make their way on stage. Neither carries a script, but they still move effortlessly into place, know exactly where to start. Mikoto can look, now, when everyone’s eyes are on them.

Just a rehearsal, no costumes and the barest bit of a set, but Totsuka’s words give them moonlight and the flurry of petals. Awashima sharpens her regal poise to a swordpoint, and Munakata simply drops any effort to hide that insufferable pride. The lines snap between them, rounds of temptation and defiance, and then the music starts.

Mikoto’s never understood the charm of French, all the stupidly complicated vowels and accents and words that catch in his throat like a bad cough. Even Munakata’s fancy speeches with the Duke weren’t that interesting. But when he sings in it, plays the language like he plays his strings--that’s--

That’s just fucking _unbelievable_ , really. He’s not even sure that much talent can be counted as human anymore, it’s just so irritatingly perfect--but then there’s that faint thrill, again, humming down his spine. _And you’re the one who makes a wreck of him._

Well, he’ll take that, feels his lips twitch at the thought of golden rooms and knots of silk. _Careful_. But Munakata’s not helping, not when he locks eyes over Awashima’s shoulder, drops a roughness into his voice that sends a start down her back and a hitch in Mikoto’s breathing. _Careful._

The song ends too quick or goes too long, and oddly enough it’s the stage crew that starts the cheering, startles the rest of the performers into following along. Yata yells out from somewhere behind him, “Guess you lot got your work cut out for ya, for once.”

There’s a familiar tongue click. “Any moron with half a brain can set up a stage, but I’d love to see your tone-deaf ass try a couple lines, Mi-sa-ki.”

“ _Espèce de -con-, je t’ai dit_ _de n’jamais_ \--o-oi, Totsuka-san, are you okay?”

The vague kick stutters against his ribs, when he looks over and Totsuka is furiously dabbing at his eyes with his sleeve, his face unsure what to do with itself but trying to smile. “Yes, of course! Of course, it’s just, I hadn’t really thought--”

 _Thought you’d get to see this_. Totsuka’s hunger was always so much bigger than theirs, wasting away on broken things and scraps of paper. Mikoto should do something, maybe, say something, but it’s like with Anna, he’s never--

“It is a rare privilege to find work that not only demands but inspires a high calibre of performance.” Munakata’s voice is clear, crystallized truth, not a hint of false praise. He still carries himself like he’s in character, but the slight curve of his mouth is actually--kind. “Rest assured, Totsuka-san, that whatever talent Awashima-kun, I, or anyone else in this theatre possesses, it is meaningless without the lines you have written. Please allow yourself greater credit as to the merit of your craft.”

Totsuka looks about as stunned as Mikoto feels. The small smile on Awashima’s face is the realest thing he’s seen from her--and he’s starting to understand, a little, the loyalty that grounds her masks. “I have to agree--it’s refreshing to play a role that allows for a bit of backbone. Quite revolutionary, even.”

“Well, I can’t take all the credit there.” It’s done the trick. The writer’s voice is still thick with emotion, but his grin is lighter as he looks down at the front row. “You’ll have to thank my new muse.”

The Duke isn’t here, so Anna’s free to make herself at home in the chair by Isana, peering down at his notes and then up at the stage in turns. This probably isn’t the most appropriate thing for her to watch, but Mikoto still doesn’t know exactly how much French she understands. Got an odd intuition it might be more than he does, though. Awashima nods down at her, but she’s got her eyes trained on Munakata, for whatever reason.

Hell, she couldn’t know--how could she?

“I believe that’s given us more than a good idea of what we’re looking for,” Isana pushes gently, steering the auditions back on course. “Chitose-san, Yubikiri-san, you’re on next?”

He doesn’t realize how his eyes trail after Munakata’s steps, not until Yata taps him on the shoulder. “Got a few more loads, Mikoto-san, should be done before lunch.” He’s got a knowing look on his face, crosses his arms behind his head and nods sagely. “I was like that too, after seeing Awashima-san do her thing for the first time. Everyone goes through it, but she doesn’t give anyone time of day unless they’re paying. It’ll pass quick, trust me.”

So off target he almost wants to laugh, but he just grunts some half-reply, carries on like the landscape hasn’t suddenly shifted beneath him. Not just the fire this time--the fire he knows, but it’s that other thing, the lingering warmth seeping from somewhere far deeper. Staying.

It follows him through the day, and on the heels is Anna’s whisper, again and again.

 _Careful_.

 

The rooms are empty and the candles are out, the skylights throwing stark bars over Munakata’s neck, chest, wrists. Makes Mikoto think of kept things in cages, lined up along the dockside markets and swinging from whorehouse windows. The Duke’s back tomorrow, but he’s also here, here in the way the other goes through the motions, finds the quickest means to the necessary end. And that had been enough, really, until--

“Distraction is truly a most attractive quality.” He’s glaring now, hard-eyed and calculating. “I suppose we will have to settle for a brief performance tonight, as there are obviously more pressing matters on your mind.”

His hand darts lower, but Mikoto’s quicker, catches it and pulls it away. “Stop.”

“Oya, are you having second thoughts already?” All rehearsed smiles again, but it’s too late--he’s seen too many slips of the real thing behind the masks, in the dark and on the stage.

“Just shut up.”

He’s got nothing on what Munakata knows, no tricks and no more than a handful of scattered experience. But he knows what he wants to do, and that’s--

Press a kiss to the inside of the wrist, feel the tendons start and quiver against his lips, the beginnings of a tremor that echoes its way down to the hip pulled taut under his palm. Take the slim fingers in his mouth, chase their music on tips of his teeth till they twitch against his tongue and Munakata gasps. “What are you--”

“I said quiet.”

His face stills, arranges itself into another cultivated expression, but he doesn’t fight it when Mikoto eases him backwards, lays him bare in the light. The bars stretch longer, like a prison tattooed on his skin. Songbirds in cages. Sometimes Totsuka would do stupid shit, like open the doors, but that’s not something Mikoto knows how to do. All he knows is to lean close, let his shadow blur out the lines, pretend it’s enough.

He wants it different, this time. Still a mess, but a slow one, little by little. He’s always been good at reading bodies, knowing where to strike, so he just follows the instincts, trades violence for the pressure of his mouth and the pads of his fingers--here, the thin skin across the collarbone, there, the jut of the hip, angles of the inner thigh. He goes by how quickly the other’s breathing comes apart, learns where to touch for a groan, for a murmur, for the sound of his name. He lets it build, wave after wave, until the other arches into his touch and comes with a cry.

There’d been a rule about noise. Mikoto decides that he’s going to make a habit of breaking it.

No quick comeback, this time. Better, to watch his features soften in confusion, piece themselves into something real. He blinks, finally, stares up at him. “Why?”

For the job, for Totsuka’s smile, for somehow being what he wants and what he doesn’t at the same time. Mikoto shrugs. “You need a reason?”

Munakata frowns, slightly, runs a hand along his ribs. “When the Duke returns, our situation will change. I had thought it best not to complicate matters.”

“Not complicating anything.” He doesn’t want to keep thinking on this, because the reasons are murkily warm and suspiciously close to how feels about the three who’ve already worn their places into his chest. He drops his face into the dip of his neck, blinds himself in the dark of his hair. “Last time I try satisfying you, then.”

“Be serious, please.” But the hands come up, lock tentatively around his back. “You must be aware, Suoh, of the nature of the Duke’s desires, of what I must do to fulfill them. It will not be soon, but in time--”

He shuts him up the best way he knows how, until the hands tighten and pull him in and there’s no more room between them for talking or reason or consequence.

 _Careful_. He’d promised Anna. _Be careful_.

He’s not so sure he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize that the chapter a week schedule I set earlier was way, way too ambitious. I probably shouldn't make any promises about exactly when updates will come, but I do work on this every day and am trying to put together some kind of rhythm. Thanks for being so patient!
> 
> So, this chapter turned out much different than what I'd set out to write, but I guess I needed somewhere to dump plot and character intros and...other stuff. There's probably going to be a little sarumi and izuseri and other relationships, but they'll largely be background noise, or else this would get out of hand real fast.
> 
> In the vein of setting musical scenery a la Moulin Rouge!, the song I had in mind for Munakata and Seri's duet is some variation of "Etrange etranger" from a French musical version of Dracula. This is a real thing that exists. But of course, you can imagine any song you like :)
> 
> Your guys' comments and feedback continue to be amazing <3 I'm so happy to be a part of this fandom!


	6. Act 6: Górecki

_There was a fortune teller who beckoned to me, once, while I was waiting for Mikoto in yet another nameless slum. I went over for she was old and frail, and I was still breaking my habits of careless kindnesses. Again, it is a different world than what you know--another hard lesson, as she gripped my shoulder tight enough to leave marks so dark I couldn’t bathe for a week lest Mikoto somehow see them._

_“Keep your eyes to yourself,” she spat, and let me go. It was not the strangest nor the cruelest thing to happen to me, in those days. I did not dwell on it._

_Tatara is the opposite. “Watch and learn, Anna,” he said, tearing open the doors to all the worlds hidden in his heart and bleeding out through his fingers. The words did not sound cliche, not from him._

_So I explored the Damocles with eyes wide, and soon the stories began to make sense, on and off the page, in and out of my mothertongue. Tatara knew--he always does--and gave me more, endless books and passages. Shiro let me read his notes, crisp and clean and bracketed in figures that spoke a language of their own. The musicians gave me sheet music and songs while Seri and her court gave me volumes on the unspoken words of the face and body. Saruhiko begrudged me poetry scrolls, pretending he did not mean to. Misaki gifted me the colorful dialect of the alleyways, and he certainly did not mean to. I let my eyes roam pages and people, and learned quickly._

_Of course, none of them knew what else I could see, what that fortune teller saw so long ago. None but Mikoto ever came close. That thing I keep to myself, folding it into a secret heart. It is not easy to do, to mask something so cleanly it might not even be there at all, to train a mouth to hold truth and lies and silence all at once, sing them all the same and yet never forget the hidden knowledge of which is which._

_This, I learned from Reisi._

\--

Izumo’s hand is as quick and heavy as summer thunder, right across the back of Mikoto’s head. It’s a familiar pain, almost nostalgic--his friend has a habit of opening his rants with violence. “Do you know just what kind of hell you’re getting into?”

He keeps his voice low. The Duke is sitting stageside between Isana and Munakata’s empty chair. Totsuka’s still running auditions for the lead, so both the Jewels are on, and Mikoto’s trying not to look so satisfied with that particular arrangement. He’d thought it was working. “What?”

“Do _not_ even try me.” Tired eyes are trained on mixing whatever fancy thing the Duke had sent Mikoto off to get--apparently bodyguard and servant mean the same in his book. If it gets him killed, well, that would simplify things. A dangerous train of thought to have, and by the way Izumo’s glaring, he reads it. “The Sapphire King. Of all people. When I said he’s something else, that wasn’t some kind of dare.”

Unlike with Anna, Mikoto’s gut tells him exactly where his friend got his suspicions, which really takes any high ground he thinks he has and buries him in it. “You and Awashima got any tips then?”

The bartender smirks, but it’s all wrong, curled up and brittle as old paper. Mikoto’d thought he’d seen the last of those looks, the ones that stick into him, and twist. “I know better. She does. You, well, this is typical outta you, but really, going right for the most impossible--” He gives a vicious shake to the mixer, the ice rattling along to his muttering. “That guy. How does that even--you two? Really? You know what, I’ll congratulate you on whatever reason-defying charm even made this possible, if this doesn’t end up with all of us out on the street. Or worse.”

His hands run counter to his seething, cradling the delicate glassware with a lover’s touch. There’s another thing he’s always been good at, breaking up his feelings into their own little boxes, never confusing them. Mikoto should maybe ask him a thing or two about how to do that, when he’s in a better mood. “Anybody else know?”

“No.” Izumo pins him with another dark look, darker behind the lenses and against the bags under his eyes. He isn’t usually here, this early, but the Duke wants the bar open for his personal use in yet another power trip. “Best keep it that way. Or end it.” He manages to choke out a laugh, finishes the pour. “As if there’s a chance in hell you’ll listen to me.”

The drink is thick, oddly red in the light. Mikoto doesn't move; it’s shoved toward him with a sigh. “Take this. Don’t drop it. Try to be less of a disaster, if you can.”

 _Careful_ , _we’re all on the line here_. Another layer to Anna’s strange warning, and on it the weight comes back, settles like a stone in his chest. He hasn’t felt the chains in a while, almost forgot they were there. Not Izumo’s fault, Totsuka’s or Anna’s, and thinking it is wrong, but if they just weren’t--

Fuck it. But he straightens again, anyways, gets a firm grip on the glass as he shoves off the bar and away, keeps his eyes to the front and nowhere near the stage. Izumo’s absent murmuring dogs his heels.

“...hope Seri-chan has better luck.”

 

The Duke stays long after the day’s rehearsals are done, so deep into the night that Munakata’s fragmented words start circling in his head and piling in his gut. _It will not be soon, but in time--_

But their shadows stay apart across the low table, and the noble leaves alone. It’s definitely not relief he presses into the sharp curve of the other’s collarbone, in some back passage corner. Nothing like that at all. “That took forever.”

“At least one of us must keep up appearances.” Arms snake up over his shoulders, trailing silk along the back of his neck. “A necessary act, if this is to continue.”

No luck on Awashima’s part then. They’re more alike than he’d thought, maybe, somewhere deep down. Stubborn. That’s probably not a good thing. He moves up, sees that pulse-point bruise is fading quick. Considers leaving another. “How long?”

“His Grace is under the impression that I am to be won through the drawn-out courtships he’s gleaned from feudal fairy tales.” Slim fingers card once along the curve of his skull before tightening a warning tug against his hair. “I have no intention of correcting his outdated assumptions, though it may be for naught if you insist on trying to mark me as if you are some kind of animal--”

There’s a spot that oughta shut him up, right--here. Works like a charm. Mikoto grins as the arms hook and clench about him, body thrashing like a sleek fish caught on a fisher’s lure. He learns fast, when it comes to certain things. _All the wrong things_ , echoes Izumo’s exasperated tone. “Not like he’ll see ‘em.”

Munakata’s leg curls around his, and he feels the slow glide of his heel along his calf, right before it snaps against the back of his knee. He staggers, and there’s no softness in the hold that braces him. “It is the principle of the matter. You cannot keep holding to this willful ignorance, Suoh, not with this.”

It’s not something a courtesan or even a streetwalker would know how to do, or dare to, no matter how rough their turf--the lines under his hands are steel, like the blade buried behind the shadows and screens, the face in front of his just as hard. Mikoto really doesn’t know anything about him, only that this feels almost natural, this capacity for violence, more than the music, more than all the tricks he does up on the stage and behind closed doors. Natural as breathing, like he’s done this as long as Mikoto’s worn blood on his hands. Natural as the way they collide.

_He’s something else._

_Careful._

Totsuka had gone through a phase of horror stories, the kind where unwise men lay down beside snakes or foxes or demons in beautiful masks. Kind of funny, how all those words he’d laughed off are coming back to bite him in the ass. It’s the sort of warning you’re supposed to listen to.

Too bad he’s not exactly good at doing anything he’s supposed to. If Izumo can’t straighten him out, then the universe is shit outta luck.

“I’m not. Not marking you either.” He doesn’t know half of what he’s trying to say, that thing tied up in memories of cages and the half-heard heart of Totsuka’s play _._ “You’re not mine to. Sure as _hell_ not his, though. S’not like I don’t know the difference.”

The words sound stupid in his mouth, but Munakata’s mask cracks up under them like thin ice over a plunge. There are depths seeping through, far and cold. Mikoto dives. Always been better with actions.

They finally surface for air and Munakata’s breathing drags heavy and wet, like he’d actually been drowning somewhere in his head. Mikoto almost asks, but then his hand comes up, twines over his own, eyes clear as glass against the dark. “Have you seen the Dragon Chamber, yet?”

Can’t say he has. Won’t soon forget, when he does.

 

\--

 

They don’t talk about it, after that, and Mikoto wants to say it’s a good thing because he’s already run out of the words he never really had in the first place. Besides, there are other things that need to be sorted out.

Production’s already behind a few days. Totsuka hasn’t found a lead actor yet, and he wears the worry easily, dogged by his own standards and the Duke’s presence. Apparently that _oiran_ \--Totsuka calls him Fushimi, puts a face to the backstage name--had been a favorite for the role, until he’d deadpanned his way through all the lines which riled Awashima up and turned the whole childhood romance scene into a bitter confrontation between jaded rivals. Chemistry plenty, but all the wrong kind--ended up as one of the attendant characters and Munakata’s understudy. Mikoto had thought it was pretty hilarious until Totsuka’s shoulders began to slump more out of defeat than his usual exaggerated motions.

“Kusanagi-san,” he moans, the slow morning after, sprawling over the counter as they wait for the Duke to arrive. “You sure you can’t do it? Your French is perfect.”

“Idiot, who’d tend the bar? Pull from the kitchen staff if you’re so desperate--Kuroh’s got more than enough free time now he’s not juggling door duty.”

“You know Yatogami-kun’s French is worse than Oni-san’s.”

“Oi, shut up.”

“Ne, you’ll be playing across from Awashima-san, too. It’s every man’s dream come true!”

“Are you deaf? I already got one job to worry about.”

More to it than that, Mikoto knows, but they just let a look pass between them over Totsuka’s head. Anna catches it, like she always does. She makes another mark on her paper, thrusts it in front of the writer’s nose. His brown eyes crinkle in confusion. “Hm? _Blanch?_ What do you mean by--”

But then Isana is striding out of his office, white suit showing another sleepless night while his steps try to tell a different story. “Places, everyone, the Duke will be here soon. Munakata-san, Suoh-san, with me, please.”

He waits till Anna disappears backstage before making his way over, catching the tail end of hushed concern. “--certain you are up to this? As it stands now, your nights are your own, but I worry with these new insistences--”

“It is somewhat late to voice your apprehension in the nature of our work, Isana-san. Have I ever before wavered in the fulfillment of my duty to your theatre?”

“You know that’s not what I mean. If it gets too much, if _that_ happens again--I’m putting my foot down.”

“Forgive me if I doubt your influence in this matter.”

“Munakata-san, please, I just--good morning your Grace, welcome!”

The Duke’s greeting is still too long, but now Mikoto knows when the masks are in place, how fixed they are. No need to look over, play catch with hidden glances.

Their act’s really taking off.

 

Too bad the same can’t be said about the rehearsals. Four new auditions in, and this is the closest Mikoto’s ever seen Totsuka come to a breakdown. Awashima’s a force of nature, adjusting her rote lines to play along each new actor--but it falls short every time, and while she remains pretty and smiling, he can imagine the temperature around her has dropped to a chill.

“It’s not bad, it’s just not _right_. Is it the words? Or--”

The playwright’s muttering, scratching furiously at his head. It’d be a great time for Munakata to say the perfect things he does, except the Duke’s leaning in and talking his ear off about things not even remotely related to the play he’s supposed to be funding--Mikoto gathered that much from looks alone. Only Isana keeps interrupting them with apologies, right until the noble snaps, “Well then why don’t you show me how it’s supposed to be?!”

Totsuka starts, yelps as he almost jerks out a handful of his own hair. “Er, we would, your Grace, but--” He pauses, fixes the wincing manager with an odd stare. “Actually, Isana-san, would you mind giving us a read through the scene?”

Looks like he’d mind a hell of a lot, but he’s caught between Totsuka’s pleading and the Duke’s glaring, so he sets down his notepad and walks up to the stage. At this point, no one’s going by the script anymore--Mikoto’s pretty sure he could recite both roles, even if more than half the words are lost on him and the ‘feeling’ of the scene moreso. But apparently, that’s not something Isana has a problem with. At all.

Maybe it’s that weariness that won’t leave him, the clean way he reads the lines, or even how he looks at Awashima like he’s apologizing for putting her through this on top of everything else. Or maybe they’ve just run through enough overdone bits that Isana’s barely-acting is refreshing. Whatever it is, Totsuka’s sold the second the last words leave his mouth.

“It’s perfect, Isana-san. No one could play it like you--you have to, please?”

“Ah, that’s flattering, truly, but I’m afraid with all the production work I couldn’t possibly--”

“Nonsense, Monsieur Isana.” The Duke’s suddenly straight in his chair. Mikoto doesn’t need to see his face to know what kind of smile is growing there--all teeth and jowl. “I had a suspicion you might be more suited for the stage than a stuffy little office, and of course we only want the best for this production. You needn’t worry so about your little theatre, not when I’ve paid so handsomely for it.” His hand’s there, always there, right on the spindles of the chair back, right over the dip in Munakata’s spine that Mikoto knows through the cloth. The fingers drum across the wood, glance over the heat beneath. “Feel free to leave the bulk of these business matters to me. We’re partners now, after all.”

Gallows-bound, that’s the look Isana’s got. His eyes dart over the room, come to rest on Munakata like a last hope and find only the faintest suggestion of a shrug. Of course, he’d known exactly where this was going. Isana would’ve too, if he didn’t wing everything on good intentions and a prayer. Mikoto’d learned that lesson hard and fast, on the dockside. Where Munakata did--the answer’s in those depths he’d skirted, and he wonders if he’d really want to find out.

“Well, then, thank you, your Grace.” The smile turns back on, and maybe it’s no surprise that he’s the one that fits--he’s an actor too, underneath it all, clinging to impossible things. “We can discuss matters further this evening, then--I believe there is time before the dinner arrangements?”

“Of course.” Fingers are getting more daring. That last pass is almost a caress. “I do try to keep business and pleasure quite separate. Luckily, I’m learning that the night is long enough for both.”

“Indeed.” Isana’s lips wind tighter, tight as the tension in Munakata’s spine, the one Mikoto feels echoing through his own. He claps his gloved hands, turns to Totsuka. “Congratulations, Totsuka-san. You have a lead. I assume this means we can finally start the full run of Act One? Don’t think for a moment I won’t continue my critiques now that I’m involved.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, boss.” Totsuka’s delighted, at least. Another thing, passing cleanly over his head. Or not, because there’s a slight nervousness to his energy, to his voice when he calls, “Alright everyone, act one, scene one, the lovers in the garden!”

The show shudders to a start, and Munakata gets the chance to take his leave, murmuring what’s probably a coy apology before taking to the wings. A little too quick, maybe, by the way the Duke’s grip tightens against the wooden bars once he’s gone.

Mikoto can’t find it in him to breathe any easier. Too quick, maybe.

Or not quick enough.

 

\--

 

The private parties start that night, when the rehearsals wrap and dusk is bleeding through the windows. The low tables come out in smaller numbers and more elegant arrangements. Most of the performers disappear once the curtains sweep over the stage, leaving only the best--a handful of musicians, the top few _oiran_ , a small band of _geisha_ who make an art of setting places and carrying china from the bar and the kitchen. Munakata and Awashima retreat to their attic rooms, but never for very long.

Men like the Duke don’t have friends--another constant of all that wealth. Plenty of connections, though, a court of rivals and associates with pockets as deep as theirs and hunger to match. That’s who’s streaming through the doors tonight, dining on the finest the Damocles has to offer, thanks to the generosity of its new financier.

This, Mikoto’s familiar with--more chance of danger in this kind of crowd than in all the troupe and their audience combined. So he lets the body memory take over, stands over the Duke’s shoulder and reads the room. Some bit of him knows he’s probably on display as much as anything else Isana’s put together here--he can feel the stares, the curiosity, but that’s nothing new. Like in Tokyo, they drift away in time. He’s not the main event, after all.

No, that’d be the Jewels, making their entrance down the stairs, decked out like the old gods in woodblock prints. Awashima usually breaks off on her own, a different table each night richer for her presence. Munakata’s path always ends at the Duke’s side. Part of the arrangements made earlier in the evening, an outburst that had carried right through the heavy wood of Isana’s office door.

_“It’s not that I’m a jealous man, I just don’t like other people touching. My. Things.”_

Things. That pretty thing he calls ‘Reisi’ so casually, who pours _sake_ and makes flawless conversation, who bows to each request. He plays anything the musicians hand to him, knows his way through every teahouse dance and more, matches Fushimi’s wit word for word, dazzles with Awashima each time they partner. An impossible masterpiece, who looks only to the Duke, lets them all know who they’ve got to be jealous of, whose money talks the loudest.

The noble eats it up, just like he’s meant to, because what he doesn’t know, what he can’t know, is that ‘Reisi’ is the best act Munakata’s got.

 

\--

 

Mikoto doesn’t use that name, when all the carriages have rolled away and the Duke’s left them to clean up his excesses. Titles and roles don’t matter, this late--they all pitch in, Awashima and Fushimi rolling up their impractical sleeves to haul tables alongside Isana and Izumo, some of the stage crew showing up to help the _oiran_ sweep the floors, the kitchen staff grilling the _geisha_ on what dishes are doing well as they put away instruments alongside the musicians.

Not a remarkable thing, that Munakata’s often the one on the other side of whatever he’s carrying--they’re the same height, it makes sense. Not a remarkable thing, either, that the Duke’s favorite would take it upon himself to educate the idiot bodyguard on a number of things, including the storage of certain priceless pieces--it does reflect upon him, after all. Sometimes the passages are difficult to navigate at night. Easy to get lost. Izumo sighs, Awashima bites her lip, and even Fushimi rolls his eyes. Only Isana smiles, believes what he’s told.

Mikoto learns the Damocles the wrong way around. He remembers forgotten hallways by which of those elaborate kimono he’s come too close to ruining, by certain ways shadows fall on a face. He’s got the storerooms and closets sorted by how long they’ve been abandoned--longer should be better, but too much dust and he can hear the other starting to fight for air, and not in a good way. He knows every roundabout backway to Munakata’s door, but Yata’s still kind of amazed that he gets the stage directions confused.

“As he should be,” the actor says, when he mentions it. “It is not terribly difficult. Towards the backstage area is up, towards the front of the stage is down. Your orientation of left and right depends on whether you face the audience or the stage. Even the most vapid of our performers have ascertained that much.”

He’s got kind of a shitty personality when he’s not putting on a show--Mikoto knows this because whatever pillow talk they end up having is an argument. “In what world does ‘back’ mean ‘up’ and ‘front’ mean ‘down’?”

“This world, quite obviously, a tradition that has carried through generations with little need for reinvention. It is a simple matter of shifting perspective, Suoh.” A sideways glance. “Though, perhaps that concept would be difficult to grasp for someone with your particular flare for obstinacy.”

Like he has any room to talk, but Mikoto’s grinning through his glare. “Fuck you, Munakata.”

“My, is that an offer? Your grammar is almost as horrendous as your sense of direction.”

It’s never his given name, in his room or any of the other quiet attic spaces, in the shuddering moments of tight heat and drawn skin when the world disappears to nothing but the drag between them. He stumbles on the surname more than he should--needlessly long, needlessly pretentious. But it’s the name the other chose, the first real thing they’d traded, realer than the easy syllables given to Western tongues. And when he breathes it right--against the hair matted to his neck, along the swell of his thigh or in the shallow cups where skin pockets bone--when he breathes it right there’s a shiver, a spark, a tightening hold, and that’s really more than worth it.

 

\--

 

The show limps on--got all its legs, but still doesn’t know how to use them yet, especially with the Duke sitting front and center most days. Mikoto spends the bulk of his time slouching behind or shadowing him, enough that it’s almost a relief when he’s ordered to the bar for a few precious minutes. Should be a relief, too, when Munakata’s put upon to sit rehearsals out at the noble’s side--his fault, for being so good and doing nothing to hide it. But then Mikoto’s got to watch the slow progression of seeking hands, an entire parade of too-close-too-long gestures, and listen to all the loaded conversations in the language that goes right over his head.

(He makes the mistake of mentioning this, too. It starts random stretches of nights where Munakata speaks to him only in French and drives him up the fucking wall. Partially because he doesn’t change his wordy speech patterns in the least, and partially because it’s working.

And partially because it sort of gets him hot, not that Mikoto would ever, _ever_ let that on.)

The weekends are when they get it together, when the Duke must return to his countryside estate to manage his 'affairs'. He invites Munakata along, of course, but Isana pulls out whatever leverage he’s got left, wields it like a shield.

“My dear Duke.” Lots of hand-wringing here, apologetic bowing, and Munakata looking so exasperated it might be a little more than an act. “I’m afraid we simply cannot spare one of our lead actors this far into rehearsals. Master Reisi plays such an important role, both on the stage and on the practical side--these performers can be so flighty without the steady hand of one of their own, I’m sure you can understand. Besides, who else can we trust to convey the details of your vision while you’re away?”

Probably wouldn’t work, no matter how hard the manager tries, only that sly thing under the suit and skin likes this waiting game, the thrill of the hunt. Strings Mikoto’s instincts thin and wire tight, poised on the edge until the carriage drives off and out of sight, takes the promise of teeth with it.

Only then do all the curtains come up, letting the backstage tumble out front and gathering them all back on the same page. Totsuka breathes easier, Isana looks less like he’ll fall over any minute, and Izumo gets to come in whenever he wants or not at all. The actors fill their roles a bit more naturally and the musicians take more liberties with the score, comfortable under Totuska’s praise and the Jewels’ precise example. Maybe there’d been some truth to Isana’s words--Munakata has a way with the artists, guides them as easily as Mikoto handles his growing backstage duties.

Yata still acts like he’s one of the best things to happen to his crew, even if he’s only there a few days at a time. He saves him the heavy-lifting and loft work, ropes him into coming along on supply runs, chatters like they’ve know each other all their lives. His Japanese is rough, odd on the vowels, but understandable. Sometimes Anna joins them--she’s gotten close with the kid, all the time she spends hiding backstage, and Mikoto knows she’s more curious about the city than scared of it. She still clings to his hand, but it’s a looser hold, drawing to and fro like a kite on a tether, getting better at ignoring the stares. Yata does, too, hardly bothering to hide his eyes under his cap as he’d done before. They’re rubbing off on each other.

“Or, you’re rubbing off on them,” Izumo counters, one afternoon he’s along to restock the bar. “You tend to do that. Think Totsuka would’ve ever stepped foot on that boat on his own?” Probably, he’d wanted it bad enough, but he’s been trying not to argue with Izumo lately. The bartender takes a meditative drag on his cigarette, passes it over as they walk by a glittering storefront. “It’s the same way, with that guy--all of ‘em on stage, following his lead. Maybe that’s why.”

Still a bitter note there, but better to just let it drop. Yata’s in a shouting match with a shopkeeper, somewhere up ahead. Anna darts back to them, eyes as shiny as the marbles she’s got clutched in her palms. Usually she’s content to stay in the theatre, solemnly sorting through papers, practicing knots, picking up anything that catches her eye. But this, this is good too. He doesn’t want her scared, not like before.

After a while he stops checking for her, reflexively, whenever she slips out of sight--she probably knows her way around better than he does, on the whole.

The warnings drift to the back of his mind.

 

\--

 

Night starts earlier, these weekends, no parties eating up the hours and no acts past the day’s rehearsals. Slow evenings, when the thought crosses his mind that maybe what they’ve got is more than stress relief, more than filling a need or feeling human or acts of rebellion. He never asks, though, doesn’t need to know reasons. When someone like Munakata winds up in your bed, you sure as hell don’t question it.

But he gets inklings, here and there, and sometimes he lands on the right questions without even trying. “How do you write it?”

“Pardon?”

“Your name, the characters.”

He’d been looking up at a scroll, lonely on the stripped wall of the corner behind the screens. Munakata’s starting to favor the area, lately. Probably something about a _futon_ on _tatami_ , or the traditional simplicity he’s made here as opposed to the over-the-top splendor of the other rooms. Or maybe he just likes having that blade an arm’s reach away. Whatever. Mikoto knows homesickness when he sees it.

Munakata adjust his glasses, and for a minute he looks like he’s considering going over to his desk, grabbing a brush, and starting a lecture on calligraphy--which, just, no. But then he rolls over onto his elbows, reaches out to trace quick strokes on the curve of Mikoto’s outstretched arm.

“I trust you remember the origin of my surname.” The slight scrape of his nails is really doing the opposite of helping him get a sense of the symbols, at all. “As for my given one, _rei,_ meaning ‘decorum’, and _si,_ derived from the character ‘to govern’.”

He ends with a light flick that sends that uncomfortable warmth leaping along his breastbone. The words come out to cover. “Someone had high hopes for you.”

Another of those edged smiles. “Indeed. Perhaps it would’ve been proper to change that as well, but I imagine at the time I felt I had given much away already.” He pulls his hand away, locks his fingers together. “Sentimentality fastens itself upon such small matters.”

A vulnerable moment. Mikoto could jump on it, widen it with questions or bullshit reassurances. But he stays quiet, waits till the other’s done sealing whatever wounds he’s got, then acts like nothing’s happened. Munakata’s not someone who needs his protection. Or wants it, not the way he turns his cool eyes back on him.

“At the very least, you must know how to write you own.” Asshole. But, fair’s fair. He makes hard marks on the sheet between them, and Munakata frowns. “Your stroke order is beyond off, and from that I imagine your handwriting is atrocious.”

Mikoto shrugs. “Just copied what Totsuka gave me. It’s enough.”

“It is somewhat hard to conceive that a place that turned out someone of Totsuka-san’s artistic capability can likewise leave you with so little.” Unlike him, Munakata can’t seem to grasp when to let things go. “Was there truly no institution you could attend for some form of basic education?”

It’s kind of funny how annoyed he sounds, like it’s a personal offense that there’s no harbourside private school, that he can’t go back in time and make one. He probably would’ve made one hell of a public official. “There were monks, taught you if you stayed with ‘em. Totsuka did for awhile. Me n’ Izumo--didn’t. Couldn’t, I guess.”

He hadn’t meant to add that last part. Munakata’s eyes sweep the mess of his hair, dart down to meet his gaze, hold it--one of the few who can, now he thinks about it. “ _Gaijin_?”

Almost sounds pleasant, when he says it like it’s a simple fact--just a word, with a meaning, no spit or fear behind it. And maybe that’s why he keeps talking, gives him a bit of the story, in return. “Some half. Izumo, too. The order’s got to take brothel kids. Didn’t know what they were getting till we grew too much for ‘em to do anything about it.”

He’s not really bitter--nobody on the docks had an easy life, not by a long shot. He just happened to be marked where people could see. Not really a curse, and probably gave him an edge against those who thought it might be. But there’s no pity in Munakata’s face, no trite sympathy, nothing more than casual attention.

“I might conjecture,” he says, finally, “that your expulsion is rather a blessing in disguise.” He’s reaching out again, and his fingertips are drawing unreadable figures down the lines of his waist, slipping beneath the thin covers. “You would be utterly wasted on a monastic life.”

“True,” is the reply he manages, before pinning the other to the floor and nudging his lips apart. He tastes the smile, the low laugh, as fingers thread unflinchingly through his hair. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

 

\--

 

Monday comes, brings back the Duke with his expectant airs and late night galas. Not an easy thing to admit, but the strategy works, even though it runs them ragged. With the three leads lined up, it’s an opportunity to show off short scenes, hint at the spectacle to come. Money comes in on Awashima’s flirting and Fushimi’s tongue, the ‘favors’ granted by choice performers. The Duke oversees all exchanges, holding his own prize out of reach.

Mikoto understands more now, what they talk about right in front of him, the rapid French he can just catch at. The Duke has opinions on everything--the thread of the play, the actors, the writing, the music. Most of it’s far from what Totsuka’s shaping, what Isana’s scrambling to save. The Duke wants bright lights and bare skin, a story he can sink his teeth into and shake apart, scatter the scraps on stages through the city, stages that won’t know what to do with it or much care. It’ll sell though--he’s sure it will sell.

Munakata listens, nods and smiles and subtly, elegantly, turns him back on himself. Mikoto can’t follow how he does it, half the time, the flattery or the paths his logic takes, but he gets how easy it is to be led--when he smiles just so, drops the lightest touch on the arm, the knee. Has the noble thinking just the opposite of what he started with, convinced they were his ideas in the first place. And if there are any doubts, well--”Perhaps we can discuss it further, after you’ve seen what I have planned for this evening’s dinner, of course?”

Those nights, the acts are more. More daring, more distracting. Enough to put any thoughts of the play far from the Duke’s mind and leave the draw of the Damocles, of its star, in their place. Saves them, each time. Only afterwards, Mikoto’s had to push his reflexes to catch at table corners and imported glassware suddenly fumbled, to reach out and steady a trembling arm as indifferently as he can.

“I am fine,” Munakata hisses, more than once. It’s a lie, but Mikoto lets him tell it, if it helps. Doesn’t plan on letting it change anything. Those nights he sees the other to his door, and that’s about it. He doesn’t ask. Munakata doesn’t offer.

Those nights he joins Izumo on his way back to the flat. Totsuka and Anna are rarely sleeping, sitting up and passing papers back and forth or working on new projects altogether. Those nights he falls on the couch, throws an arm up to block out the light, and tries to get to sleep before his thoughts start.

“Oni-san seems a little gloomy tonight.” He hears the pause of Totsuka’s pen, the slow collapse of the scripts piled up on the coffee table. “Dare I ask what troubles him?”

He’s not going to answer. Anna does. “Reisi’s hurting. He won’t let Mikoto help.”

That makes him start up, in time with the clatter of the pen on wood. Totsuka’s eyes are wide enough for him to see all the pieces falling into place behind them--doesn’t take too long, he’s pretty quick when it comes to that kinda crap. “ _That’s_ where you’ve been, all these nights? I mean, I’d assumed you’d find a more comfortable bed somewhere at Damocles--but with Munakata-san, that’s--”

“S’not like you gotta act like it’d be impossible.” Anna doesn’t bother to meet his scowl, perched primly on her nest and turning over the puzzle box she’s got clutched in her hands. Looks suspiciously like one of the ones Munakata’s got scattered around his room, the only things he lets clutter his desktop. “He started it.”

“Doesn’t mean you had to go along.” There’s Izumo, from the kitchen.

Totsuka falls back on his elbows, casts his gaze skywards, and pouts dramatically. “You _knew_ Kusanagi-san? All this time I was distraught with worry over where our Oni-san might be wandering about at these unkind hours, and you never said a word, even with Anna waiting up in agony--”

If anything, the girl's just proved she knew a lot more about her guardian’s whereabouts than she’d let on. Which he should’ve expected, really. All the looking she did, wouldn’t surprise him if she’d learn to _see_ , in ways he wouldn’t even begin to understand. But Totsuka likes making shows outta everything, till Izumo comes into the room, drops a plate of sandwiches on the table, and kicks the writer’s arms out from under him.

“‘Course I didn’t say anything, you realize how screwed we are, this gets out? This idiot, doing nothing to help, and his highness choosing a hell of a time to lose that stick up his ass--” He rips into a chunk of bread, whips it accusingly in Mikoto’s direction. “What part of ‘keep it that way’ don’t you understand? More than a few people are starting to suspect, and _Fushimi_ knows--but that brat always figures things out, how I can’t even--”

“That why he’s been glaring at me?” Kinda hard to miss, the looks glancing against his back like knives. Even Awashima’s aren’t so openly hostile. Izumo looks at him, drops his face into his palm.

“Not even close. But if you can’t figure it out, means he’s doing exactly what you’re supposed to and you oughta take note of it.”

The ranting’s starting to swerve--tends to do that when his friend’s hungry, tired, surrounded by idiots. Mikoto still has no clue what the _oiran’s_  deal is, feels like he should work that out so he can stop irritating one of the people who could potentially bring all this to a head.

“Misaki,” Anna supplies, again, and slides another lacquer piece into place.

 

\--

 

For some reason, Totsuka decides that he needs to work over the garden duet between the princess and her captor in painful detail. Also that Act One needs to be moved along more quickly so they can start on the next half of the show. That act takes place largely in Yomi, and requires many more appearances by the lord of the realm. How he manages to balance the two completely opposite goals is a sight, a sight that happens to require Munakata being on stage. A lot.

The looks Izumo gives Mikoto when he goes to get things from the bar get sharp enough to rival Fushimi’s. Nothing to do but shrug them off--wasn’t his idea, and far as he knows neither of them have ever been good at stopping Totsuka from doing what he wants. And he wants to help.

He means well. Mikoto knows he does. But you miss a lot from the stage, like how clenched the Duke’s fists get, how he locks on the actors like he’s scenting blood. How the want grows in him, spills over during the evening’s entertainment. How distance makes him bolder, an arm around the waist or neck, hands mapping out promised territory. The diners comment on how ferocious his bodyguard appears, at times--it’s really quite unsettling.

“Well it would hardly do for me to hire someone who doesn’t at least look the part.” Some part of Mikoto longs for the days when he didn’t understand half the shit coming from the noble’s mouth. But even then he’d see the fingers, stroking casually along silk. “But I’ve been assured by fine sources that he is the best money can buy. And of course, I never pay for less.”

Reisi smiles like it’s a compliment, angles toward the touch.

 

The masks take a long time coming off, afterwards. The body under Mikoto’s hands is rigid and cool as the bone china cups they’ve put away--stops him dead. “We don’t have to.”

Munakata shifts his gaze over, a slow break from the window to his face. He doesn’t know what words the other’s fishing for, only that he doesn’t have them. Still seconds stretch too long, till the only thing to do is pull away and start for the door, add a few more nights on the couch--

Something crashes to the floor when his back hits the wall, the impact sending stars against the dark. Munakata’s mouth is bruising, biting--the blood he tastes is his own. Can’t pull him any closer, but he can lock him in place, right on that border where pressure turns to pain. His hands are unnaturally clumsy--something tears. Mikoto doesn’t give two shits what it is.

These kind of nights are part of it, nights when Munakata’s got to fight his way back to himself and he just happens to be in the way. They rarely make it to the room, and maybe that’s a little intentional, considering how much they’ve got to clean up when they’re done. Here they’re rough and hungry as his memory of the docks, grappling frantically for control. He lets him have it, only if he manages to take it--they’re matched here, here and somewhere far down under the flesh.

_Maybe that’s why._

Easier than talking, more direct. Leaves him low aches that he almost misses, once they fade, and sleep that runs deep and dreamless. Sometimes there are flickers--the space gone cold beside him, minutes wearing hours until the warmth slips back in, the faint scent of copper that has him reaching out in the dark.

But these he forgets, too.

 

\--

 

The weeks stretch longer, but the weekends still come, more anticipated than before. Friday evening after the Duke’s well on his way out the city, and Totsuka wants to take another look at the first scene, run Isana and Awashima through their opening duet. “Your acting’s good, boss, but you’re singing isn’t quite there yet.”

Isana actually looks apologetic, which starts fist-shaking from the strange pink-haired girl Anna hangs around with, and Kuroh, who’s distributing rice balls from the kitchen.

“Ne, ne, Shiro’s good at everything he does! You’re not listening right, fancy word man!”

“I must bring myself to agree. Yashiro-sama’s vocal capabilities, while not as, er, provocative as his fellow actors’, nonetheless possess a clear and pleasant tone suited for the overall personality of the character he’s striving to portray. Furthermore--”

“Tch, you two barely know what’s going on, so just shut it and let’s get on with this mess.”

“Hey!”

“Why I--”

“I am sure Isana-san and Totsuka-san are quite capable of voicing and defending their own perspectives, if at all necessary.” There’s been sort of a drag in Munakata’s voice, lately, but it hasn’t affected the command of it in the least--Mikoto might just be imagining it.

Isana rubs the back of his head in a very un-business-like manner, while Totsuka sighs. “I never said it was bad, but we all want this to be the best right? That means practicing, even when it’s almost perfect.” He shoots a stunningly innocent smile over at the Jewels. “I mean, why else would we have Awashima-san and Munakata-san run through their lines so many times? Speaking of which, why don’t you take a break, King-san--I know we’ve given you a rather long week.”

It’s true, so there’s no reason why the actor wouldn’t take an early night. And Mikoto getting bored halfway through the song and wandering off, well, that’s not really new either.

 

“Would it be safe to assume that Totsuka-san is now privy to our understanding as well?” Munakata murmurs against his temple, fingers sliding over his shoulders and sending his jacket to the floor. How he can compose those sentences while Mikoto can’t even think straight half the time--

“Yeah,” is what he gets. At least he’s not in kimono today. The knots are a bitch and a half.

“You are doing a rather--ah--terrible job of keeping this clandestine.”

“Awashima told Izumo. That’s on you. Shut up.”

“Well I can hardly be held accountable for her, much less Fushimi-kun--”

Of course he doesn’t listen, not until Mikoto turns the words to a groan under the curl of his tongue. Tea, again, plum-soured, familiar in all the right ways. Could take it easy tonight, there’s time, except Munakata’s already got his hands under his shirt, drawing fire down his back in that languid way he knows goes straight to the head. The lips quirk, slightly, form a question on his mouth.

“Was that a purr?”

Absolute bastard. Fuck it with the clothes--his palms drop, cup the curve of his ass through the thin fabric of his pants, and there’s the bite of nails along the swell of his shoulders when he hoists him onto the vanity. More things on the floor, neither of them care, not when he finds that spot low on the other’s spine, the one that makes him arch against the mirror as Mikoto’s other hand works to undo the stupidly small clasps slung low on his waist--

The door’s opening, there in the reflection. Isana’s profile, calling down the hall. “Of course, your Grace, just give me a moment too--”

He turns. He sees.

A thousand years hit his face all at once, the moment before he whirls around and slams the door back in place. “Ah, it seems Master Reisi is elsewhere in the theatre, perhaps we should try the common rooms or--”

Gradually, the voice and the steps fade. The hollow pounding in Mikoto’s chest, that stays.

“ _Putain de bordel de merde,_ ” Munakata says, quietly. It’s the first time he’s ever heard him curse.

Probably too long, the time it takes for them to straighten out. Most of the wrinkles fall out of Munakata’s clothes, when he stands. Mikoto hands him the _haori_ draped over a nearby chair, to cover the ones that won’t. “Now what?”

“By the grace of Isana-san’s quick-thinking, there is still a chance we may salvage this artifice.” Guess that quick composure has its uses--not a hair out of place, when he turns away from the mirror. “The Duke’s presence here may mean he feels his influence is waning. I shall have to settle his doubts.”

Shit. Mikoto runs a hand through his hair. “Guess I should go, or--”

The absent kiss that Munakata presses to his lips is just that--usually Mikoto’s hard-pressed to use the word, but he can’t think of another that fits the fleeting warmth. Might be the first for that, too. “Stay. I will not be long.”

Plainness is a promise, he’s starting to learn. Not much he can do, then, just nod, watch the other go, and settle into waiting.

 

A light touch on his shoulder, and a voice that doesn’t belong. “Suoh-san.”

Sleep makes Awashima’s face foggy, that and the murky dark filling the room. She’s got a candle that’s barely doing its job, almost flickers out when he sits up on the bed. She shields it with her palm, calms it like she does her voice. “It is late. Kusanagi-san has been waiting.”

Why would Izumo--his fingers curl into the sheets. “Where is he?”

“By the main door, of course.”

She knows damn well that isn’t what he means. He stands, more suddenly than he means to, but she doesn’t flinch. Her gaze is steady, practiced, same as her posture, her words. “You understand how unwise it is for you to be here. The Duke may have left, but there is no reason to take further risks.”

He could stand here all night, it wouldn’t make a difference. She’ll hold her ground, follow her orders. That’s what this is. _Coward_.

Takes him from the bed to the hall, for anger to wade through the dull disbelief. He slams an arm against the closing door. “I need to hear it from him.” The candle gutters between them. “He owes me that, at least. You tell him--I’m not gonna let him hide behind you or Isana or anyone else. He starts it, he ends it.”

“You--!” Her mask crumples like paper, burned off in the frantic shadows. “Why can’t you just--?!” Anger to match his, and something else, something desperate that breaks her in a way he never could. “There’s no time. He doesn’t have--”

But she remembers herself, or her role, claws her voice back in and surges against the door. The shock of the slam echoes through him, through the empty halls. He waits for them to die off.

Awashima isn’t the sobbing type. Just breaths, from the other side, long and measured and methodically timed. It’s the same rhythm Izumo taught Totsuka, way back when every little thing brought him tears. _“Yeah, like that, till it passes. You’re a man, aren’t ya? Won’t take more than a few minutes, then the worst part’s done. Breathe. Easy.”_

Takes a long, long while, for the silence to fall back in place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argh. So, this chapter. So far, this is the one I've most wanted to give up on. I'm so sorry for whatever bits of that come through...I was not prepared for a five-minute movie sequence becoming ten plus pages of narration.
> 
> Anyways, I know there's a lot of plot happening, and hopefully it's not too confusing and the characters still sound more or less like themselves? As always, I hope you guys found some enjoyment here <3 I'm aiming to be be more positive with the next chapter, come what may ;)


	7. Act 7: Come What May

_Perhaps you may have heard it, Tatara’s closing theme for the Damocles. It is popular in certain small circles, quietly persistent. Even now I’ll catch the familiar refrain, from street-corner chanteuses or from the dim, sleepy cafes I pass in the hours amid deep night and struggling dawn._

_Us few who know the meaning hardly sing it anymore, but I have never shied from listening._

_There are so many ways we hold to our threads. Tatara turns his to music and lyric, Izumo to a steady hand on the rudder, a port in the storm. Seri winds them to her body and makes of it a breathing marionette. Shiro, unspooling string after string till his heart beats beyond his chest._

_There are so many ways we try to break them. The snarled and smoldering thing just now healing between Misaki and Saruhiko, the stripped line between Izumo and Seri, clinging like spider-silk despite all they do. But I have seen enough to know, that they are never to be undone._

_That is what is beautiful, about destiny, the allure that draws Tatara’s pen._

_That is what is tragic, about loving like the sakura bloom each spring. It is so easy to lose yourself in the drift of petals, the beauty and light._

_It never does die, the memory._

_Even when the flowers do._

 

\--

 

“I don’t presume that I can tell either of you what to do.” Isana doesn’t turn away from his office window, but his hands twitch, gnarled together behind his back. “I hold no illusions about the power of my influence. Or lack thereof.”

A conversation neither of them wants to be having. It’s in the manager’s fascination with the sudden rainfall on the streets outside, in the way Mikoto slouches further into his chair, last night’s sleeplessness a storm around him. Weighs the air too heavy for words, but Isana keeps pushing them through.

“Munakata-san has assured me that this is--an infatuation. A, er, physical understanding, nothing more. Is that true?”

 _Coward._ But this isn’t Awashima he’s talking to. In a way, Isana’s in the same boat--used up, set adrift. In a way, Mikoto’d taken advantage of him, too. So what he can do, what he should do, is spare him the rest. Spit up the kinder answers. “Guess so. Never talked about it.”

Half a truth in there, that’s enough. More empty seconds tick by, as Isana decides whether to believe it.

“...Very well.”

Not a surprise, given his track record on poor decisions. He turns from the window, same old, thin smile strung out like a peace offering. “I’m sorry Suoh-san. I meant it, what I said when we first sat here. About Tokyo. About how I wanted this to be different.” He sighs, slumps back against the glass. “The Duke holds the deeds to the Damocles. Were it any other way, well, I’ve given blessings for less.”

 _Yuukaku_ bosses would rip right into the heart of him, ransom up Anna, threaten to throw Totsuka’s words to the dogs, anything to keep him in line. Isana stands there and apologizes for the weight of his dreams. Mikoto can’t tell if it’s some kind of charisma or cunning, what he should feel either way. Never can, with these show people. Doesn’t care to unpack it, either, not here, not now.

“Don’t need it. S’done now.” He stands, feels the cagey stretch of his bones. “Anything else?”

“Ah, no, I don’t suppose so.” Another fidget, worrying hands. “Are you--?”

But he swallows down the questions, one after the other. If anything, he’s got a good sense of damage control. If anything, he knows how this plays out—acts of relief, bought and sold, nothing more over a line clearly drawn. He’s made a business out of such exchanges, knows how easily they end. That’s what he’s got to believe.

What they all do.

 

Munakata’s waiting for him, halfway down the hall. Paler, somehow, or it could be the shadows, the dark folds of his costume. But he’s not supposed to notice those things, not any more. “Awashima tell you?”

Back to not looking at each other, coming full circle even when they’re side by side. “In so many words.” A small shift, could be the tilt of his head. “Tonight.”

Can’t trust those simple phrases, but they still pull, sinking like an anchor through his ribs. “Fine.”

“…this will be the last time.”

And with that he turns, strides away like he’s done it a thousand times before. The hook catches, gouges, drags him after.

 

Mikoto asks to take the supply runs, alone. Yata starts on about the rain and how there isn’t really anything immediate for us to worry about, Mikoto-san, it can wait—

Then he sees his face and remembers ten different shipments all at once, or makes them up, doesn’t matter. It’ll take him out of the theatre till dusk.

Anna’s waiting by the back door. She forces an umbrella on him, shadows him through the dripping streets. That’s fine. She knows how to ghost herself, be the silent sounding board for a question, a feeling that he can’t quite reach.

Takes him the whole of Paris to pin it down, and only then do her fingers find his own.

 

“Why Awashima?”

Munakata pauses, but the robe doesn’t, slipping down around his elbows and baring his shoulders to the lamplight. Skin thin as the _washi_ on the screens—easy to bruise, probably. No marks, though, none that Mikoto can make out. Still makes his fingers curl against the edge of the desk, driving wood beneath his nails.

“I was—indisposed.” Words chosen carefully and slid into place, like he’s just another puzzle the other can fit together and put away. Like this is just another thing to pass the time until—

“That your way of saying you fuck him?”

Doesn’t give the satisfaction of flinching, of acting like he might actually have blood running through him. But then he’s always been cold to the touch--and the thought wakes every memory worn against his hands, every inch of winter skin that ran to heat beneath him, gave into him, gave into--

“If that is what you are given to believe, then I see little point in persuading you otherwise.” His voice cuts cleanly, for all its softness, as he shrugs the silk back into place. “Perhaps it is for the best, in any case. Yes, I did entertain the Duke’s desires, and let that bring a closure to these ill-advised trysts.”

So perfectly composed it’s got to be a lie, but there’s no relief in it, only spite building to a fever in his head. “Say something straight for once, Munakata.”

“Well then, shall I delineate the sordid details, would that be enough to satisfy you? Or perhaps you require a demonstration.” Distance goes up quick as an oiled thread, sparks and smolders until they’re back to that first night, positions reversed but drawn the same. “What is it that you want from me, Suoh?”

What he wants is two nights ago, two weeks ago, back when all he’d need was that friction sliding between his legs and the touch trailing up under his shirt, back when he didn’t care if it's all distraction. When he didn’t care for-- “Start with the fucking truth.”

The ghosting pressure turns hard, curls into a fist over his heart. “The truth? The truth is that it could very well have been last night, tomorrow night or any of those to follow for as long as this theatre has the means to open its doors--the Duke has paid for his pleasure, and he will have it one way or another. When that occurs--” He fixes his gaze somewhere over Mikoto’s shoulder. “Whatever we’ve played at here ends. Judging by these dramatics, it was too much to hope that you would come away unscathed, regardless of the measures I might’ve taken to spare you.”

 _That’s rich_ , he wants to say. _You wish. I’m not. We’re not--_

But those are lies, and behind Munakata’s rambling there’s the truth he’d asked for and he’s not like him, can’t trade one thing for another and call it even. Maybe if he could, they wouldn’t be here. Maybe if he could, this would’ve ended a long while back.

But he can’t, and they are here. Too close, still, for the words and the world shoving their way between them. Too close, and that’s where all those pretty phrases start to unravel, where Mikoto can’t help but pull at the seams. “Oughta move, then.”

Ever the contrary pain in the ass, he doesn’t. A beat before he breathes out, a half-thought against the shell of his ear. “I should.”

The closest he’ll get to admittance. Up to him, again, to turn and bridge the gap. He drags his teeth against the corner of his lip, pulls the stubborn mouth into place--not forgiven, not at all, even as he weathers the roughness, opens up like an apology. No fight, and it drops cold into the center of the building heat. Not enough to stop though, if this is it, this shitty excuse for goodbye.

What breaks them is the dead stop mid-inhale, too sudden to be intention. Munakata whips his face to the side, wracks out one, two short coughs--heavy, but could be nothing. Could be, except Mikoto feels the tremors as the rest are forced down, rippling into long aftershocks that make him draw the other close despite himself. He doesn’t pull away, not like he would’ve before--this, too, is truth.

“It was not an excuse, Awashima-kun’s appearance.” His voice is steadier than it should be, by some crazy force of will. “I did fall ill, after the Duke’s departure. I can only surmise that she did and said what she thought was necessary, as I was in no condition to dictate her actions.” A faint, fond smile. “Though I seldom do in the first place.”

Not his place to care anymore, not after tonight, if ever at all. Not his place to reach up, turn that face back to him. “That bad?”

“Hardly,” Munakata says, without meeting his eyes. Mikoto tightens his grip, just so, holds it till he relents.

All the things he’s good at, storytelling isn’t one of them. The past comes in stops and starts, rattles off in some parts and goes deliberately vague in others--but Mikoto’s got time, listened to Totsuka enough to know how to find a main thread and follow it. There’s a small town on some northern coast, governed by minor nobility hungry for more and grooming their heir to take it. There’s a  girl of good breeding, brought to be a bride but finding her calling as a _miko_ instead. And then there’s a sickness, carried in on the foreign ships courted for trade, spreading with the spring bloom.

“Awashima-kun’s duty was to the dead and the dying. She had little rest, at the worst of the epidemic, yet retained perfect health while those whom she tended wasted away. I needn’t tell you what omens the fearful can draw from such coincidence.”

Anna, thrown down on her knees in front of him, and all that dirt couldn’t hide the white of her hair, a color they called death. He’d seen what they might do if he didn’t take her, shouldered the same so-called curses, superstitions nested in desperation and gnawing through sense. Things Munakata, with his pure blood and family name, would never come close to touching and still--

“My father would let them have a sacrifice, if it kept them from tearing down our walls, and given there was no one left who would listen to a modicum of reason--” A short sigh, nothing more than mildly irritated. “I saw little choice but to leave. An appropriately dramatic flight, for sixteen. No doubt the common belief is elopement, if there remains any one to entertain it.”

At sixteen Mikoto’s putting the only two people who mean anything to him on a boat, sending them far from all the hell he wakes to for years after. And Munakata, who’s got everything, who’s got more than any of them could stand to imagine, weighs it all against one life and makes his decision. He’d do it again, without a thought--that’s another truth.

He’s doing it now.

“So you dying or what?” The question comes out too lightly, probably, for the answer he might get. But Munakata huffs, like he’s heard it a hundred times too many.

“It is a remnant, nothing more. One of the rare improvements here in the West is that their thoroughly modern practices tend to make short work of sicknesses that are the ruin of backwater villages. Fushimi-kun happens to be the favorite of a rather brilliant doctor who assures us that this is the case.” He shifts, starts the old pattern that’ll push him away. “Regardless, it is not a matter that concerns you, nor should it continue to once we’ve concluded tonight’s affair.”

 _Like hell_ \--and he doesn’t realize he’s snarled it out loud until he sees Munakata’s eyes widen, in that brief moment it takes to pull him off balance and catch tight. The desk groans under their soft collide, sudden weight. One precious beat of quiet, then the struggle starts.

“This cannot continue, Suoh, will you be reasonable--” Little he can do but dig his fingers into wherever Mikoto’s got them pinned, which hurts, but hardly enough to make him let go. Cups the back of his neck, instead, noses against that spot behind his ear that stills him.

“Don’t remember giving you a say in what I can or can’t do.” The pressure goes slack, pain trickling to warmth. “Not anyone else, either.”

“You speak as if you are privy to a choice. This has gotten too far out of hand--too many know, Isana-san knows, and the Duke.” Mikoto feels his tone shift, before he hears it. “The Duke’s business the other night was to extend an invitation for a private party on the _Rive Gauche_ in a fortnight’s time, and to insist upon your accompaniment. He is not the sort of man who would issue such a proposal upon a whim, much less any form of _noblesse oblige,_ and I would not gamble on mere coincidence.”

 _Careful_.

But he’s never been the type to let others decide his life for him, whether it’s some rich asshole or the whole damn world trying to force him to its script. He’s not going to be just something else Munakata won’t let himself have for the sake of noble intent or whatever he just said--especially if that’s the only reason he’s got. “Probably getting his money’s worth--ain’t like I’ve got much to do here.”

“I cannot tell if you are being deliberately obtuse or dangerously naive.” The lines are softening against him, worn down in waves. Inevitable. “He could bring ruin upon everything, should he suspect, and what I must do to keep that at bay will not change.”

The last card he’s got, deadly, because it’s true. Tightens a knot somewhere down in the dark of him, and yet-- “Then the least I can do is trust you.”

He stiffens so quick Mikoto thinks it might be another attack. “It is nothing so simple, Suoh.”

“The hell it isn’t. You do your act, I’ll do mine.” Loosens the hold, just enough for their eyes to meet, for Munakata to read the plain truth that’s taking him far too long to understand, smart as he is. “Meant it, when I said I didn’t own you. Got no right.”

Can’t say the things Totsuka can, can’t dress up a promise or a feeling pretty enough for him. But maybe that’s alright, the way it burns clean through. “We cannot carry on here--there’s too much at risk behind these walls.”

One final hurdle, but it’s something he’s already got figured out. Easy, really.

“Then we won’t.”

 

\--

 

Yata’s on board before Mikoto’s finished asking, stays on after he hears the rest of it, even with his face twisting up like he’s swallowed something off. Loyal, underneath the trash talk and tough guy act--don't really know what he’s done to deserve it.

Anna catches on without words. She’s up when he gets back with the dawn, takes one look at him and hums her satisfaction in a bright tune that sends Totsuka scrambling for his pens. That fervor kicks up higher once Mikoto fills him in, awkward halting and all. No surprise--it’s the kind of thing he’s mad for, the kind of thing that sits as the heart of all his writing.

Izumo he tells in the kitchen, in the middle of an omelette, a moment when his attention might be too divided for violence. A long shot--he’s tended bar in the Damocles shitshow for far too many years--but instead of reaching for the knives, he clamps Mikoto’s skull between his hands and grinds their foreheads together for the first time since they were kids.

“You will be the _death_ of me, you lo-- _sex_ -starved _idiot_.”

Guess he’ll take that as some kind of yes. Wish he didn’t have to drag them all in so deep but--well, Izumo sees right to the quick of things, understands even when he doesn’t like it. Yeah, Yata’s a puzzle, but Mikoto thanks whatever past life grace that landed him the cranky blond swearing as the eggs start to burn.

And just like that, the show restarts--easy, like he’d said. Monday and they finally wrap Act One to Totsuka’s satisfaction. If the writer’s got a bit of a glint in his eye, well, chalk it up to that.

“Now to the beginning of Act Two, everyone, into the perilous arms of Yomi!”

More danger, more intrigue, passions dripping from every line. Close enough to the sort of thing the Duke’s been after, trade off for the fact that his favorite can’t sit out whole performances at his side anymore. Doesn’t ease Isana’s worries, of course--the first few days have got him fretting offstage, eyes on his investor’s every tic, till the noble starts ordering Mikoto to sit at his side and block “that damnable staring”.

Munakata’s the one to smoothe things over, in the end. His act is better, now that he’s put an end to silly distractions. Back to the coy games from that first evening, making eyes from the stage and loading each scripted exchange with anticipation. Every scene break has him sweeping off for the Duke’s opinion, lingering till the last moment before the next call, like he can’t stand the new distance.

Doesn’t spare the bodyguard a second glance, these precious minutes. Mikoto stays stone-faced, watches the other performers try to keep up with Totsuka’s enthusiastic directing. If there’d been anything in passing between them, anything at all--well, it’s gone now.

Only takes a couple of days of seeing it for Isana to to settle back to his old stresses. Got another shade to the sadness he wears, but it works with his bit as a wandering soul trying to get back what’s lost. Couples well with the haunted feel that Awashima’s leaving after her lines, turns their dream scenes rich with misplaced longing.

Puts whatever doubts the Duke might’ve had out the door, the way it all comes together. Everyone is right where he wants them, eating from the palm of his hand. Weekends are a small thing to trade for the day’s entertainment, for that upcoming outing with his prize on his arm. Probably more to follow, now he’s confident his invitations can’t be refused. The evening dinners border on extravagant, money pouring out in expensive liquors and fine French cuisine set next to the traditional fare. _Look at what I can do_ , _what I can buy_.

Clean-up goes quickly, after. Mikoto helps Izumo with whatever he’s got to do, Munakata tends to anything else. No one says a word about the sudden change, if they notice it at all.

Each night that week ends back at the flat, on the couch, learning to fall asleep to Totsuka’s scribbling and hummed bits of song. Doesn’t come easy, and he wakes up more often than not. Sometimes it’s Anna’s soft breathing that can ease him back--not the rhythm he’s gotten used to, but his body remembers Tokyo nights when it did the same trick.

Sometimes he finds himself searching out the Damocles in the dark. Can’t see that window from here, but maybe there’s a flame, in a lamp, somewhere behind a screened-off corner, maybe--

Fucking hell. Too much time around Totsuka and his words, making his brain go soft. Gotta be a reflex, something else he’ll get used to in time. It’ll get easier, the passage of days.

It will.

 

\--

 

Friday’s rehearsal ends early evening. The Duke takes his long goodbye, and Isana sees Mikoto leave with the rest of them, out the Damocles’ open door. Anna darts up to take his hand, halfway through the familiar streets, and when he looks down all she does is press a palm to her heart and smile.

Makes him feel a little lighter, somehow.

Still doesn’t take the edge off the last hours, sliding slow as wet sand through a sail’s netting. Totsuka smiles knowingly, murmurs something to Anna in a language that’s neither French nor Japanese and that’s new--but still doesn’t dull, well, whatever’s got him wound up in his skin. Not going to put a name to it. Not that far gone yet.

So when that knock sounds, well into the night, he definitely doesn’t bolt for the door. Doesn’t fling it open, either, so why Yata’s giving him that shocked face on the other side is beyond him. Hardly matters, because Munakata’s standing there right over the kid’s shoulder, wearing the plainest clothes he’s ever seen on him, and still, _still_ \--

“--sure no one followed us,” Yata’s saying, rubbing the back of his neck and looking at every other place the hall’s got to offer. “But I went the most backward way I could think of, like you wanted, uh, Mikoto-san?”

“Thanks for sticking your neck out with the rest of us _,_ is what he means.” Izumo’s hand lands on his shoulder, pulls him clear of the doorway. “Don’t just have ‘em stand in the hallway, that defeats the entire purpose of this plot. Get in. Hungry, Yata? Might as well feed you if you came this far.”

“Hell yes, everyone in the kitchen’s experimenting with all that fancy crap and all I want is one damn--”

“Yeah, yeah, save your bitching for Kamamoto.” Izumo closes the door, glances over his shoulder like having the Sapphire King standing in the living room of the shithole flat is completely normal. “You too, Munakata-san?”

“No, thank you, Kusanagi-san. I ate earlier in the evening, and have little complaint about the kitchen staff’s innovations.”

“Well, suit yourself.”

They make for the kitchen as Anna unfolds herself from her pile, comes over with something held out in her hands--that puzzle box she’s been working on. Munakata drops to one knee, and his smile might be the first real one Mikoto’s seen since the week’s start. “I trust you have figured out the sequence, then?”

A small, decisive nod and then her hands go into a blur of motion, panels slid out and tugged around and pulled off and replaced till it becomes a very different box that happens to be open. First time she’s done it, the way she peers inside and lights up, turns it over to shake out a red paper flower.

“That will be your clue to the next one, though I can tell you that it will be rather more difficult to locate than the last.” Mikoto wonders when they’d gotten the time to become so comfortable around each other, or if it’s just another unexplainable draw she has--or maybe it’s him. “A challenge to suit your growing familiarity with the Damocles’ inner architecture, though I have the utmost confidence you’ll rise to the occasion.” He looks up at him, for the first time really, and there’s only a hint of that cool bite in his eyes but it goes right through it’s been _so long_. “You may have to start sharing what you’ve learned with your guardian, as he continues to be hopeless in that respect, as Yata informs me.”

“Ah, Munakata-san, you’re here!” There’s Totsuka, suddenly, bounding out from his tiny bedroom. “At last--Oni-san has been suffering so, _la douleur exquise, une belle dame sans merci_ \-- _vous comprenez, n’est-ce pas?”_

“The hell are you talking about?”

Maybe he hadn’t really thought this through, this weird crossing of worlds and all the moments up in smoke between them. But Munakata remains oddly at ease, rising to his feet in one fluid movement. “I would that you keep the dramatics to the stage, Totsuka-san, where such claims may be believable.”

“Mm, perhaps, but didn’t the great bard of the West call all the world that very thing? And you two, a truly contemporary, delightfully bohemian Tristan and Iseult, speaking of which--” The writer puts his hands over Anna’s ears, something she doesn’t seem to mind as she grapples with her hint. “I will take the couch tonight, and no protest will sway me. I’ve written my share of passionate reunions, you know, though I will warn you the walls are rather thin so for Anna’s sake, and Kusanagi-san’s too I suppose, his bedroom’s right on the other side--”

Mikoto grabs Munakata by the arm and makes for the door. “We’re going out. Now.”

Totsuka’s glee follows like a plague. “Have fun, Oni-san! We certainly won’t be waiting up!”

 

“Did you truly intend for us to spend the night on a couch?” Munakata asks, some time later, in the dark corner of some cafe-bar he must know because they get service without a second glance. It’s either a laugh or that half bottle of wine making the light pool in his eyes, Mikoto can’t really tell.

“Wasn’t thinking ‘bout that,” he answers, tongue blunt with whatever liquor, thick and red-gold, keeps filling his glass.

“Oh? I was certain that was the motive for the continuing state of affairs.”

“Maybe s’just to see you.” Too strong, what he’s been drinking, for how easy it goes down. And he’s had how many, for the thoughts he shouldn’t think to spill out and paint themselves across the other’s face. But it’s a good look on him. Surprise. Or red. “Away from all that.”

Open cages. Not as hard as he’d thought, maybe--or it’s something to do with all those nights, Totsuka’s words leaking into his head. But birds would be gone, one sight of open sky. Munakata fills his glass and stays right where he is. “It is a theatre, not a prison. My nights have always been my own.”

“So you buy into Isana’s deal, still?”

“I must.” Red on his mouth, on the words. “The Damocles would be naught without his genuine belief in its potential, however naive. It is my home, for all its faults, and if I have it in my hands to secure that--” He stops before the downturn. Better at handling his thoughts, or the alcohol, draining the rest of the glass and isn’t that some shit. His fingers flick out the proper amount of paper notes, fans them on the table as he stands. “Bring the bottle, and do try to be careful with it.”

“What?”

“It is custom, and I have paid well enough, if that is your concern.” He starts off so quickly it’s reflex that moves Mikoto after him--his brain doesn’t catch up till they’re back out on the street, and Munakata’s smiling over his shoulder. “‘We’re going out’, your words, if I recall correctly. Well, where exactly was it that you had in mind? Or would it give you too much credit, to consider that you put any amount of foresight into this endeavour?”

None, just away from Totsuka’s overactive imagination, and now down the nearest narrow alley, because yes, it’s more, but this--he can’t pretend that this isn’t a part of it, the flood that sweeps through when their mouths meet and he almost drops the bottle, feels Munakata’s fingers thread into his grip like he knows.

There are people passing by, there are always people, but they’re just set pieces for the minutes counted out in shared breaths and a week’s worth of distance turned inside out on their lips. He’s good,so _good_ and it’s been so, so _long--_ and maybe it’s the drink messing him up like this but maybe it’s just him, always been--

“ _You._ ”

Not sure who says it, in the dizzy gap for air. Munakata’s other hand comes up, runs a light touch along the heat of his brow. “How strange.”

Feels nice. He turns his face to follow it, hears something like a chuckle. “What?”

“I had thought, perhaps, that our time apart might lessen this disastrous compulsion.” Frowning, again, pulling at the dark smudges under his eyes. This close he sees them, knows he’s got the same.

“And?” Mikoto asks, presses the question into the curve of his palm, thrills in the shiver that runs between them.

“How long until Miss Anna and Totsuka-san are asleep?”

Way he says it makes him want to head back running, to hell with crowded streets and consequence, but--“While yet, all the lights. _Damn_.” Brick grates on the back of his hand when he slides it down the arching spine. “Shoulda thought about that.”

“It truly is astounding how little consideration you’ve dedicated to this plan, so much so that I hesitate to even call it one.” Mikoto’s about to shut him up again, only one quick twist and he’s at the mouth of the alley. Funny, he’s never really liked how bright those gas lamps are, but Munakata just has to go and look good in anything. “Thus, I shall make it my duty to salvage this enterprise. A respectable vintage and the streets of Montmartre--there are worse ways to pass the time.”

This _impossible_ \--but still he’s following him down avenues that seem to turn in whole different directions under heady haze of night. “You get chatty when you’ve had a few--sure you know where you’re going?”

“I have only spent the last decade at the heart of this city.” He slows the pace, drops a hand back to guide the bottle to his mouth. Mikoto feels lips across his knuckles, maybe, too caught by the dark glinting in his eyes. “In any case, I am quite certain that you will be _sure_ to keep track of our path. ‘Twould be a pity if we couldn’t find our way back in time for the pursuits of more clandestine hours.”

Course he has to dress it in his fancy words, but Mikoto hears the message, loud and clear and hot through the core. Starts paying attention to the street names and cafe signboards, while Munakata leads them out under the lights.

 

\--

 

“I’m going to write a song,” Totsuka says from the couch, raising his skinny arm straight in the air like a salute to the dawn. “A song to outdo every other song. A song about love.”

Mikoto rolls his eyes, leans back on the kitchen counter and waits for the coffee to brew. He doesn’t care for the stuff--feels pretty awake as is, after the first good night’s sleep he’s had in a week. But now there’s someone besides Izumo who needs it, especially after--

“They’re all about love, Tatara.” Anna’s voice is a stage-whisper. Her nest scratches and sighs as she rolls over, probably to face the couch. “And they’re all very good.”

“Mm, but this one, this one will be different. This one will be real.” Totsuka’s head pops up over the arm of the couch, grinning brighter than the sun in his direction. “What do you think, Oni-san?”

Thinks that he’s probably doing this right, maybe, pours the liquid in one of those stupid tiny cups balanced on a stupid tiny tray and makes his more or less careful way out of the kitchen and back through the living room. He pauses by the couch long enough to crack his knuckles against the writer’s crown. “Do what you want, leave me out.”

“You’re not being a good muse, Oni- _san_.” Unfazed, of course, the way he continues to call after him. “I’ll tell Isana we’re starting rehearsals later today, no need to thank me--!”

He shuts the door on the noise. Too late--Munakata’s up already, sitting half-dressed on the edge of the cramped bed. It creaks as he looks over. “Tell me this cacophony of springs is a wholly new development.”

Mikoto hands him the saucer with a shrug. “Wasn’t really what I was paying attention to.”

“Suoh, there is a child sleeping not more than a handful of yards beyond the door.” He lifts an eyebrow, takes a sip.

“Relax, don’t think we made it to the bed anyways so--” The cough cuts him off, as the other’s face twists into a grimace. “Hey, you okay?”

“...that depends on what manner of concoction you’ve just given me.”

 _Asshole._ “S’coffee. Seen Izumo make it, did the same damn thing. He drinks it fine.”

“I can only surmise that Kusanagi-san either lacks a sense of taste or that he is a rather long-suffering victim of your culinary ministrations.” He’s still drinking it, though. “Perhaps I ought to procure some of the finer grounds from the kitchen. A futon, as well.”

Wait, so--Mikoto grins. “So we’ll keep this going, then.”

Munakata blows a gentle sigh over the rim of the cup, glances up at him through the slow curls of steam. “For now.”

Plainness is a promise, now he knows for sure, tastes it beneath the bitter and the burnt.

Damn it, he’s right--coffee’s utter shit.

 

\--

 

“Alright, so, this new scene.” Totsuka’s trying to keep the smile from his words, and Mikoto thinks it’s probably a good thing he’s never shown any interest in being an actor. “This new scene is when the Lord discovers that he has truly fallen in love with Sakurako-hime, and thus must let her return to the world of the living, where she belongs.”

Fushimi clicks his tongue from the stage, irritated as ever--he’s one of the few who acts the same whether the Duke’s watching or not, and Mikoto’s got to admire the sheer force of his attitude. “Thought we had a whole forbidden escape scene planned, why the hell do we have to scrap it now?”

“Artistic intuition, Fushimi-kun.” Totsuka clasps the pages to his chest. “Redemption through love, true love given freely and without chains--there is no better way to pay homage to the ideals of _la vie boh_ _ème,_ and, of course, to our stunning leads. It leaves a rather sour taste to have Munakata-san play a standard villain role, wouldn’t you say?”

More for the Duke’s ears than anyone else’s, but the noble hasn’t voiced a protest so far so the writer takes it as a cue to continue, darting off to his piano.

“Okay, we can take it from your line, Awashima-san.”

Stage crew has given them most of a set, roughly. Awashima clutches at what’ll probably be some kind of column, casts her eyes toward her partner’s turned back. “I don’t understand! You brought me here, didn’t you? And just when--”

“I would have thought you’d relish the opportunity to be free of this wretched place.” Totsuka’s writing hits its mark. “Do not think I am ignorant of your enchantments, the pains you have taken to bring your lover to the heart of my kingdom. A shame, to let all those well-laid plans go to waste.”

They go back and forth awhile, dance around the reveal until it becomes too much. Awashima grabs him by the arms, then, and there under the act is a flicker of the stark face Mikoto’d seen under a dying candle. “Why can’t I stay by your side? Why won’t you let me--?”

A pause, thick with something real, intended or not. Still, Munakata does nothing more than let his hand cup the curve of her cheek, and even then it feels like something far too intimate for all the eyes on them.

“And, scene!” Totsuka’s voice shatters the moment, sounds half-pained to do it. The Jewels pull apart, maybe a bit more quickly than they normally do, as he turns to address the Duke. “This, of course, will lead into the final duet, a song to remind our audience that love, even if it cannot be, even if it must remain in shadow--well, that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“More of your ridiculous dogma?” The Duke yawns. “Well, let’s hear this masterpiece, then.”

“And you will.” Totsuka rubs the back of his head. “Once I’ve finished writing it.”

Mikoto can make out Isana probably having a small heart attack in the corner of his eye. This would be the kind of crap the writer would pull, but Munakata steps up, right on cue.

“I am quite sure such an ambitious piece will be well worth the wait.” He gazes down at the Duke, weighs it with some sultry suggestion. “After all, Totsuka-san is the only one whom I would trust to give voice to the _true_ feelings behind our performances.”

Sold. One lazy wave of the noble’s hand, and the scene continues. Munakata doesn’t look over, no, he’s too good for that, and there’s no reason for it. No reason for that knot to tighten, outside of his control, no reason--

But then Totsuka plays a snatch of song, notes he’s heard trickling through the bedroom door in Anna’s clear tones, and Munakata smiles, slightly. Not at him, but he knows the shape of it, pressed against it in the morning light. One moment, their moment, hidden in a simple trill of keys.

Just maybe, that’s enough.

 

\--

 

The Duke’s got nothing more to say about the slight change in direction his play’s taking. That outing of his is coming up at the end of the week, and that’s where his head is. Even deigns to make sure his bodyguard has gotten the message about coming along--uses the simplest words and condescendingly slow French, but it’s still probably the longest exchange they’ve had.

Mikoto keeps his answers short and generally affirmative, and that seems to be enough. Doesn’t want the noble thinking he’s anything more than muscle for hire. Easier that way.

Still, he can feel the sly eyes on him, as the days tick down. Brief, appraising glances--not the way he looks at Munakata, no chance in _hell_ , but there’s something in them, tracking every move he makes. Anna’s warning comes back, tangles tight into the instincts sharpening their teeth along his nerves.

This party or whatever--something’s up.

Munakata doesn’t know what it is, either, can’t find out without risking their act. Mikoto’s got a feeling it’s probably eating him, control freak that he is, knows he’s still thinking the worst possible outcome--that the Duke’s caught on. Bullshit--be a hell of a lot more fallout, if that was true. Not the type for vengeance games--scavengers go straight for the throat. They’d know.

No, this is something else entirely.

 

Turns out he’s right. Good and bad to that. There’s split skin on his knuckles and blood on Izumo’s better suit. Ain’t his own though, so he's got that going for him.

A disgruntled sigh, somewhere in the background, and he doesn’t need to turn to know the Duke’s smiling as another roll of banknotes lands in his hands. Upstairs there’s a brightly lit ballroom, ladies in fancy dresses spinning across the floor. Down here, in this elegant sitting room, there’s--

“Well, come now, I did tell you I hire only the best. Who’s next to try and prove otherwise?”

Another vaguely familiar rich boy takes the bait, another hulking shadow moves to face him at the center of the loose ring of chairs. So, they got this kind of betting here, too. What a surprise.

Still, it could be worse. At least he remembers this particular vice--hell, some part of him might even miss it, the raw rush of a fight, his world narrowed down to impact and attack. There, an opening, one good hit and one more body on its knees, rasping out a surrender. Wonder how many more to go, before the Duke gets bored or his greed bottoms out.

He can feel Munakata’s disapproving gaze fixed against his back, but no surprise there. At least, he thinks that’s what it is. No time to hash it out, as another opponent takes the floor.

Not a good show, probably--he ends things too quick, and the crowd’s getting restless. Like it’s his fault they’ve wasted their money on thugs barely worth a challenge. Give him someone like the old guy standing off in the corner, dressed like one of those Western priests, the one even the Duke gave a nod to when they’d entered. Don’t know which one of these suits has him on the payroll, but they’re definitely getting what they paid for--he can sense it from here.

But it’s not him. Instead, one of the few ladies in the room volunteers her companion, tall and slim with a face so pretty Mikoto’d almost thought he was a girl. Probably used that to his advantage, too, because his senses kick into high alert when he steps in the ring, higher when he draws a _katana_ from behind his back.

Well, _shit_. He’s faced blades before, but usually people who didn’t know what they were doing with them. This one does. Instinct spikes--dockside lessons rising in his blood, the flickering awareness that maybe this time, this time he won’t--

“Such a disadvantage is hardly sporting, wouldn’t you fine gentlemen agree?” That’s Munakata’s stage voice, the one that brings entire scenes to a standstill. Works here, too. “Surely there is some means of leveling the playing field, or better yet--” The rustle of silk as he rises, glides over to one of the chairs right at the edge of his line of sight. “Would you do me the honor of lending me your saber, Officer?”

Never stood a chance, when he asks like that. The Duke hears it too, and there are hackles under his easy words. “Just what do you think you’re doing, _mon cher_?”

Thin fucking ice, but Munakata’s got on one of his smiles as he steps into the light, sword in hand. “I simply cannot allow your Grace’s investments or reputation to be ruined by this sham of a contest.” Well, at least he’s got a weapon now, doesn’t know much about using it but--wait--Munakata lifts his chin, stares him down. “You are in my way.”

“What the hell--” is all he manages before he’s forced aside. Can’t do much besides glare, their play on the line, but Munakata’s already back to ignoring him, flicking his wrist in a graceful arc that brings the steel parallel to his chest.

“Besides, it is well beyond the range of that barbarian to give you gentlemen the show that such a gathering requires.” His eyes span the room, fix on the opposing blade. “Shall we?”

Pretty boy laughs, but his hands are steady.

“How beautiful,” he murmurs, and charges.

 

“How’d you learn to fight like that?”

Munakata scoffs, winds the bandages tighter across his hand. “In the same manner you did, I imagine.” More light, here in Totsuka’s room--a little strange, to make out how he looks in moments like this. “Or did you assume my blade was merely for show?”

“Little bit,” he says, because he knows it’ll get under his skin. Earns him a sigh and another tug, red seeping through the cloth. “And I doubt it.”

“Doubt what?”

“We got the same kinda teaching.”

“Hmph, well, perhaps if we had you would come away from your encounters with less grievous harm upon your person.” He snaps the tin closed. “Honestly, I have yet to see a more vulgar display.”

Hard to reconcile the bitchy actor stalking away to store up bandages with the images that won’t leave his head--utter ease of motion, a honed grace so refined that his opponent didn’t even seem to mind when he’d sent his blade clattering to the floor. Hadn’t been any more challengers, after that.

He reaches out, grabs him by the waist when he’s back in range. Must be something lacing the air, how easy Munakata lets him have the hold. “Please do not tell me you are one of those deviants who derives desire from wanton violence.”

“Don’t know.” The lithe muscle jumps under his mouth, taut beneath the smooth stretch of skin. “Felt you watching the whole time though.”

“In horror, I assure you.” Still, he bends, and there’s a fleeting touch along his back, down a map of scars he must know by memory now. “Totsuka-san calls you ‘demon’ so lightly, I’d almost thought it a jest.”

“Probably is, to him.”

Fingers skirt a bruise growing along his ribs. “At least his Grace has the satisfaction of knowing he has money well spent between the both of us. Fortunately, I have him quite convinced that there need not be a repeat performance--not that he has any in his circle willing to take the odds.”

Confident, those words, but he can’t help but think of how close tonight was to some kind of edge. “Shame. Kinda wanted to have a go at the priest.”

“That was Iwafune Tenkei.” Munakata’s thumbs are at his jaw, suddenly, tilting his face up towards his. Utter cold, the glare behind his glasses. “He is not a man hired for the purposes of a brawl.”

That’s supposed to be a warning, but there’s another thing all that high-breeding can’t understand--what you trade for strength, and how it eats you. The thing that makes him grin despite himself. “What’s he good for, then?”

“If one needs to kill, to put it in terms simple enough for you to understand.” His hands drop to rest against his shoulders, a grip just shy of painful. “I doubt our paths will cross again, but I would that you curb your natural inclination towards bloodshed in this particular case. He has connections with the Duke.”

Ain’t said a thing so far that doesn’t have him itching for a fight, but here in the light he wears the same look Izumo often does, the one that quietly guts him. So he runs a palm down the line of his leg, hikes up the loose folds on the way. “Guess I could be persuaded.”

“Must you always be so demanding?” Still trying to be exasperated, leaning in all the same.

“Like you got room to talk.”

And with that he tightens the hold, flips him easily across the bed. The springs shriek, again when he rolls over to pin him. Munakata knees him in the stomach for his trouble, right on another tender bruise.

They end up on the floor, but Mikoto gets what he’s after, anyways.

 

\--

 

Act Two goes through changes. Small ones, ways Totsuka tweaks words or pulls together scenes and the characters in them. Natural, almost. Starts taking the players a minute to come down from their parts, to remember--Isana, Awashima, even Munakata, sometimes. Mostly they agree it’s some kind of genius happening on the stage, and Fushimi asks sourly if the writer’s gone and sold his soul to the devil in some artsy occult ritual.

“Nonsense,” Totsuka laughs. “My soul and my pen have always been moved by one power alone-- _l’amour._ ”

He’s doing good work on his daydreams, so Mikoto doesn’t care to point out how far off they are. No chance to, anyways, since the act’s back on once he steps through the doors of the Damocles. Can’t linger out front on the set pieces, like he used to, but Yata’s adaptable. They’re a little behind on the backstage redesign, the dressing rooms in particular since the Duke insists on the most luxurious cage for his pets.

Not his words, of course, but the meaning’s there--Mikoto’s been around the guy long enough to know, and that party just solidified it if he’d had any doubt. But it’s work, so he does it, whittles the days down in hard labor or pointless waiting.

Totsuka’s still hung up on his song, spends the evenings throwing out flowery lines which Anna either approves or dismisses with curt shakes of her head. Sometimes he’ll pout at him, wave a pen in his face. “This might go a little quicker if Oni-san could spare but a few words of insight, of feeling, of--”

“I said leave me out of it,” is all he has to say, rolls over on the couch.

“You’re such a cruel muse.”

Not cruel, not really. He just doesn’t have whatever the writer’s looking for, the words he wants. Whatever he-- _feels_ , it makes itself known in his body, on his skin. Same as an itch, an empty stomach, a sudden pain. Nothing fancy, nothing deep. Just a need, for the time to go by, for the restless nights to bleed into dull days, over and over until--

A knock on the door, and then all he wants is for the hours to slow back down.

No words for it. Even Munakata doesn’t waste their time trying, not anymore. Mikoto counts that as a victory, getting him out of his head, for once.

Still, he finds other things to go on about, those hours up and down Montmartre waiting for the flat to go quiet. Trading stories, mostly--not much else to do, and the alcohol makes it easy. He fills in the gap years, the missing time--how Totsuka went through a terrible opera phase, Izumo’s deadly experimentation during the early days at the bar. The first and only time the writer had worked himself sick, and Isana’d shut down the stage till he’d recovered. That time Izumo had almost been arrested for breaking a patron’s wandering hand.

Mikoto’s got nothing to give him, in return for the memories. Nothing to give him for all those times they stumble back through the door and the first thing he does--no matter how late, no matter how many drinks--is check that Anna’s asleep in her bed, and Totsuka’s at least got some kind of cover around him. There aren’t words for that--the telltale warmth that starts in his chest, each time. No words for what follows after, the slow, quiet thing it’s become as he tries to give back--something.

_\--freely, and without chains--_

_That’s it_ , he wants to say, sometimes, when Totsuka isn’t listening.  _That’s all it is._ Those words, that music--anything that puts him back here, wearing bite marks on his wrists and shoulders, undone by gasps just shy of sound, broken into heat and pressure and release. Anything that puts him back in lighted streets, following a voice better than any song--back to slow mornings, slow days, far from the acts and lines and lies, days like--

 

“I did not mean to wake you.”

There aren’t blinds on Totsuka’s windows--mornings are violent bright, and that’s more to blame, but it’s an excuse for him to tug the other back into bed, block out the light. “Don’t have to be up so early.”

“It is hardly early.” Still gets him, sometimes, how inhumanly good Munakata is with his hands--one deftly doing up the buttons on his shirt, the other carding an absent rhythm through his hair. “I am somewhat surprised there hasn’t yet been an intrusion.”

The bedroom door has a shitty lock, and Anna, for some reason, has no problem with coming and going through as she pleases. Once, Mikoto’d woken up to her drawing all over his back, Munakata doing nothing about it besides complimenting her brushwork. They’d started making damn sure to go to bed somewhat decent, but--well, Munakata’s always been fussy.

“Perhaps you should see to making yourself presentable, as you are already awake.” Mikoto can feel him getting up again, locks an arm around his waist, feels the huff start in his stomach. “Suoh.”

“Got time. Totsuka’ll take care of it.”

“Exactly how many late rehearsals do you think it will take for Isana-san to piece this together as well?” But he’s staying where he is, and the soothing touch continues along his scalp. “I wonder how I ever landed in such an entanglement.”

Curious, the way he says it. Mikoto grumbles against his thigh. “You and everyone else. Like I got something wrong with me.”

“Well, it is worth consideration--outside of these precise circumstances, it is unlikely that our worlds would have ever overlapped. At least not in our own land.”

Probably not. A halfbreed dock rat and the heir to a noble family--so like one of Totsuka’s fairy tales it’s almost kind of unreal. This is his life, now. “You started it. You and your playing.”

“Excuse me?”

“The damn _koto_ , like that princess out of Genji.”

The hand stills on his head. Mikoto looks up--Munakata’s studying him, his face halfway between blank and something else he doesn’t have a name for. “Did you--just compare our first meeting to a hallmark of classical literature?”

“Maybe?” Where the hell this is going, he has no idea. “What about it?”

There’s a pause, and his mouth twists into what could be a frown--only he starts to _laugh._ Hard, too, the kind that has Mikoto pulling himself up to steady him. “The hell is so funny?”

That doubles him over, for some reason, and maybe he’s just lost it or--the door creaks open and Anna’s peering in, eyes wide and brow furrowed. Mikoto shrugs helplessly at her, and she’s about to turn away only Totsuka comes barreling in with a flurry of paper and she’s swept into his wake. “It’s finished! It’s perfect! It’s--are you two alright?”

Munakata’s gasping for air against his shoulder, and he’d be worried if every other breath wasn’t another peal of laughter. Starting to catch, too, until there’s a series of vicious bangs from the other side of the wall. Shit, _Izumo._

Anna crawls up on the bed, calmly shoves a pillow in Munakata’s general direction. He takes it, covers his face enough to muffle the noise. Mikoto meets Totuska’s confused gaze over the the cloth scratching at his nose.

 _This is it_. A falling down room, oceans from where they’d been meant to belong. All these ridiculous, impossible moments, all the pieces of his heart at his side or in his arms--just, whole. More than he’s ever been. More than he will.

And Totsuka smiles like he knows, sits at the foot of the bed. “I want you to be the first to hear it, your song.”

He sings it, softly for Izumo’s sake, and Anna joins in, like she already knows the words. It’s good--even if he doesn’t know anything else, Mikoto knows that much. Good.

Maybe even perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry y'all had to wait a month for this--the chapter lengths just keep growing, and I'm not sure how to make that stop.
> 
> As you may have noticed, the warnings have changed. I've gone back and forth on the ending, but at this point I think sticking to the original narrative works best for what this story is turning into, and I don't want to blindside anyone with what happens. I wish, wish, wish I could see a happy end--but, if it helps, we can pretend things end here and everything turns out ok.
> 
> For those of you who want to continue down this painful road with me, next up is my favorite tortured dance sequence of all time--I hope I can do it justice :D
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's still reading--your feedback is wonderful, and definitely keeps me going <3


	8. Act 8: El Tango de Roxanne

_In one of those rare, quiet moments between scenes, I asked Shiro why he’d chosen the name ‘Damocles.’ It made little sense, such a classical Western name sitting above the promise of the Far East._

_“Do you know the story?” he asked, in return. Of course--surrounded by Tatara’s collections, how could I not? A foolish man who courted a king’s power, the sword that hung on a whisper above his head._

_He smiled then, or sighed, one of those strange in between faces he wore so often and so well. “Then you know that all things are measured, and there is always a cost.”_

_Perhaps I should’ve told him then, the words that wound up and up around my throat until I could not speak them. Perhaps he had meant it to be a reminder, one small rebellion against the world that broke his hopes to its design--all those who made our art into the base roots of their desire, who saw nothing beyond pretty skin and posing. Perhaps he meant to remind them that the price of such power went beyond their thoughtless banknotes and coins._

_But stories are powerful, too, this I know. They do not forget, and we are bound to them as surely as we are to one another. The strings tangle up and tug us along._

_I could not say it then, but it may have been too late. After all, the Damocles had held its name for a long, long time._

_It remembered its lesson._

_We all pay something, in time._

 

\--

 

“Hey. Got something to show you.”

Casual enough, flows out clean as any other part of the end of rehearsal bustle. Munakata shoots him a look that could chill steam, regardless. “Oh? May I enquire as to the exact nature of that ‘something’?”

Got a bit more bite to his act, but maybe it’s understandable--interacting in the theatre on purpose is a risk, technically. Even on a Saturday. Still--Mikoto leans against the stage wall, takes the cigarette from his mouth and lets the smoke drawl out. Easy. “C’mon.” He nods over at Fushimi. “Bring him, too, if you want.”

The _oiran_ stiffens, glare narrowing to a knife edge. “No chance in a _thousand_ hells,” he mutters, grabbing the scene notes Munakata’d been coaching him through and stalking off in a dramatic storm of silk. Mikoto still can’t wrap his head around why he’s so popular--but then, so are pedigree cats and other animals that can take an eye out on a whim.

Munakata folds his arms and turns towards him. “I do hope you have an imperatively dire reason for interrupting our finishing preparations, _yojimbo-san_. Time happens to be of the essence, or do you forget we have a show to perform in little more than a week?”

Not going to deny it isn’t some kind of amusing, to see how far he can test that mask. But there are people around, actors who are unwittingly sharp when it comes to certain things, so he just takes another drag and starts back into the wings. Goes a few steps on his own, but Munakata follows, in the end. His lips quirk around the cigarette.

He knew he’d need it, being alone like this.

Well, not completely, alone. A few stagehands pass them on the way down the backstage corridors, too busy to pay much attention. Munakata keeps his distance, one precise arm’s length away, enough for a low voice to carry no further than it needs to. “This is hardly the time to test our luck, Suoh. Isana-san is not an idiot. Could this matter not wait until tonight?”

“Nope.” Yata’s done a good job with the soundproofing--back here the noise settles into a low lull. “You know what might help though?”

“Do enlighten me.”

“Not talking about it.”

Munakata makes a sound that might be a snort, if he wasn’t so dignified about every little tic. To be fair, Mikoto can’t quite believe it either, how the months have taught him a thing or two about caution. Still, he knows when the rules have a bit of give.

Now, for instance.

The sets aren’t quite done--reason for Yata’s temper to be short as a matchstick and twice as quick to light lately. Dropcloth’s been pinned over the entrance to the dressing room hall, keeping out the sawdust and smoke. Mikoto pulls one aside, holds it open while Munakata gives him another flat glance and doesn’t move. _Impossible_.

“Making this take a lot longer than it should, your majesty.” Hard to work the words around the clench of his teeth, but it gets the other moving at least, sweeping by so quick it knocks ash to the floor. He’s probably going to get it later. Or not.

“I am tiring of this game, _yojimbo-_ san.” Stage voice again, projected loud enough to be heard by anyone passing by, leaving no room for questions. “Certainly there must be some other member of this troupe for you to accost, individuals much more qualified than I to assist in whatever trivial detail you’ve seen fit to waste my evening hours upon, hours that could be better spent on--”

The sight of the room shuts him up. Good. Mikoto’d been counting on it.

Far from an architectural masterpiece--he’s an indifferent carpenter at best, probably, knows little more than how to put a hammer to wood but enough to work with the bones of what’d already been there. But he remembers certain things, important things, like how to lay down _tatami_ in the way that draws the other right past all the fine furniture the Duke’s lavished on him and over to the one side that’s almost bare. Almost, but for a familiar floor, a screen, and a small hearth set down in what Mikoto is pretty sure is the right place.

That last bit bothers him a bit, but it’s not like he could hollow out the traditional pit in the theatre foundation. Still finds himself making excuses for it, though. “Best they got here, should work fine for whatever you want to brew.”

“I--it will be adequate, I’m sure.” Munakata’s got his back to him, so he can’t make out what face goes with the odd tone in his voice. “The fact that you’ve replicated the proper arrangement of mats is--impressive.”

“Wasn’t that hard, all that time lying on them.” The kind of thing he’s not supposed to say, but seeing Munakata some kind of speechless--does odd things, in his head and elsewhere. Even after all this time. “Fit your standards, then?”

That’s a nod, there, maybe, one hand reaching out to run along the edge of the screen. “Mine, yes, though I doubt his Grace would hold much interest in a tea ceremony.”

Another chance here, another place for the rules to bend. He’ll take it, pushing away from the doorframe and into that closed off space. “Yeah, but you do. All that matters.”

Munakata turns, then, reaches up and plucks the cigarette from his mouth, puts the brush of lips in its place. Light, meant for no more than a moment, but--hell, it’s too easy now to keep it going. Not too far, not here, but long enough for fingers to find quick points of pleasure--scalp or spine or _just_ lower--and stay awhile.

A trickle of ash burns down the back of his shirt. Can’t help the wince, and Munakata pulls away when he feels it. Damn. “Oh, _merde,_ I forgot--”

“S’fine.” One short curse still makes him want to push their luck a bit longer, but he’ll settle for feeling the pulse jolt when he takes his wrist, mouths the half-finished smoke from between his knuckles. “Guess I can let Yata know that something’s done.”

“Were you truly dallying in regards to my approval?” He shakes free, takes a respectable step back. Arms crossed a little tighter--those control slips are catching. Probably should wrap this up.

Mikoto grins. “Maybe, but didn’t you say you got somewhere to be?”

“Quite.” He takes the out, brushes by with a casual flick of his wrist. “You may want to look at the paneling on the far wall, though, _yojimbo-_ san, as it seems to be warping.”

Bullshit, he knows damn well everything’s set straight--but that’s part of the play too, giving a reason for him to leave a good amount of time after the actor does. No grounds for suspicion. And yet-- “Hey.”

Exasperation along the line of his shoulders, as he glances back from the door. “Yes?”

“Tonight?”

A small twitch that could be surprise, before he rolls his eyes and ruins it. “If that is your attempt to be clever--” But he smirks, then, drops his voice to the low it wears so well. “Tonight.”

He leaves the word to linger, way he always does. Cigarette takes a while to burn down, there in the empty room, but that’s fine--all according to plan. Eventually Mikoto grinds out the ember on the hearth and heads off to find Yata.

Off to a good start, this ( _final_ ) week.

 

\--

 

The show’s a different creature from the one struggling through those first slow days. Moves like a living thing now, carried on more than the draw of Munakata and Awashima’s talents. Still got that Jewel quality about them, of course, but they’re balanced against Isana’s quiet command of his role, the latent abilities of the cast rising to the occasion. Totsuka is serene, almost, as they run through the last dress rehearsals. The song was his last push, and now that it’s firmly in place--

“Well, you step back, see where it goes on its own.” He’s got blank paper in front of him, for maybe the first time in months, that is until Anna settles in his lap and starts covering the white in her careful hand. Doesn’t mind--rests his chin on her head and watches her work in his place. “You can’t control everything, after all. That’s the beauty of it.”

Yata might have some choice words about that, swamped in last minute adjustments and finishing touches. Mikoto’s starting to hear his swearing carry all the way out to the front row, where the Duke wrinkles his nose at the “unabashed crassness”. Can’t complain too much about it, though, since everything’s being done at his request, and his pet project dressing rooms are complete.

(With a few adjustments. There’d been plans for a bed, in that  _tatami_ space. Munakata sighed at him, when he'd let that slip. “Suoh, if you think that changes anything about what is to happen on opening night--”

“I know. Just--would’ve been too small, anyways. Yata told him.”

“Regardless, you shouldn’t have--”

“I said I know, already. Don’t need to talk about it.”)

Going well, then, every scene and act done over until perfection becomes reflex, until even Isana’s constant edginess is overcome by what this idea of his has become. A real performance, a work of art, even. You watch it and forget--forget where you are, forget what you’re doing. Nothing matters outside the story, the world set out on stage, the words, the music--no room for anything else.

You forget. The warnings, the caution, that anxious instinct.

You forget how dangerous that is.

 

\--

 

They’d been lucky, and that almost lasts, right until it doesn’t.

Things unravel on a string of ‘if’s. If only they’d chosen a different opening day. If only Awashima and her company hadn’t been pulled away to entertain one more party, one more of the Duke’s greedy connections. If only that patron had gotten them back for rehearsal, like he’d so fervently agreed. If only Isana, bent on another broken contract, hadn’t voiced a tired, “The show must go on.” If only the Duke would have left at his normal Friday hour, not lingered to watch them struggle through a stilted production on the pretense of caring that the rest of the cast was returned safely.

If only--

“If only we could do one run of Yomi’s last duet.” Totsuka sighs from behind the piano. “It hasn’t had as much time to grow as the rest, and it is so _vital_ \--but, I suppose we have at least a couple runs left till opening night, it should be fine--”

Just thinking out loud, habit that grows with the hours going by, so he just about falls out of his chair when the Duke shoves in a response. “Just have someone else stand in, it surely isn’t hard. They wording remains the same, does it not?”

Should be impossible for an entire cast to do a nervous shift, but that’s what it looks like. Munakata and Isana have one of their quick glance conversations, a wordless understanding that makes the noble bristle beneath his pressed suit. Hungrier, the closer it gets to his night. Straining at the leash--Mikoto feels it like a vise behind his eyes, along his ribs.

 _Then the least I can do is trust you._ He’d said that, hadn’t he. Meant it, too.

“My dear Duke,” the manager starts, in familiar soothing tones. “I believe what Totsuka-san means is that such a critical piece is fitted to the connection between its singers--as you know, our Jewels have more than perfected their performances together, and I fear that having a stand-in would be, erm, counterproductive, at this stage--”

“Yes, yes, exactly!” Totuska chimes in, catching on the tail end of his rescue. If only he’d left it at that, if only-- “Only Mademoiselle Awashima has the emotion to sing the truth behind the song’s message--we couldn’t replace her with, say, Neko-chan. Or your bodyguard! That would be ridiculous.”

Means it to be offhand, a careless joke. Any other day, it might’ve been--the Duke doesn’t think highly of the writer, dismisses him as a bit of a fool, nothing new there. But right here, right now--

Those scavenger eyes turn, rest on Mikoto like a blade to the throat. “Oh? Now, there’s an interesting idea.”

“Ah, I don’t think Suoh-san understands--” Isana stammers from the stage. Too quick. The stare presses, nicks a vein.

“Nonsense, Monsieur Isana, he can’t have gone this far without picking up a few basics.” He should keep staring straight ahead, like this entire exchange has nothing to do with him and he couldn’t care less. He should, but for the challenge bound up in malice--and his instincts have never been for flight. Too long coming, anyways, when he glances sideways to meet that oily gaze head on. “What do you say, _mon ami_ , care to take a stand in the spotlight? I wouldn’t want our King missing an opportunity to practice on the carelessness of my associates, after all.”

Can’t look up to see how Munakata’s reacting, no, that would be the end of it right there. But he can imagine what kind of expression he’s arranged, maybe, from the bored disdain his voice carries down to the pit. “Your Grace, am I in need of further refinement? If so, I would that you delineate the faults you see outright, rather than belittle me with this mockery of an exercise.”

“Nonsense. You could never be imperfect in my eyes, _mon cher,_ but do humor me.” Too late--the idea has been fixed, somewhere, inexplicable and deadly. “This entire week has been dreadfully serious, this drama of love and whatnot--one requires some sort of comic relief. Besides, it is only good business sense to see how the script plays out in the most untrained hands. A measure of worth, if you will.”

Isana’s going to protest again, he can hear him winding up, but that’s one too many on a tipping point towards suspicion. Fucked if they defy him, fucked if they don’t, but if it’s in his hands, maybe--

“Fine,” he says, and the floor seems to shift as he stands, like the ship, like another choice he can’t go back on. Make the best of it, stroll over to Isana like it’s just another annoying thing--another drink to fetch, another waste of time. “Got a script?”

Doesn’t need it, really, but the Duke can’t know that. Isana reaches into the folds of his costume, pulls out the master copy he always has on hand. “Please, be careful.”

Neatly done, that, wrapping the warning in a worry for paper--only it’s Anna’s voice he hears, clear as if she was standing right by his side. But there’s nothing to do about it now, nothing but to take the words and take his place, try to look as sullen as Munakata does frigid. _You do your act, I’ll do mine_. Simple. They’d done it all along--no different, just one more set of eyes.

“Pity we don’t have the dress,” the Duke muses. Mikoto’s glare sets and Munakata returns it with that detached arrogance, and hell, maybe they can pull it off like every other close call, if only--

Totsuka coughs out something like a prayer, plays the simple starting chords, and brings on the end.

 

Can’t pick out where it happens, what starts it. He doesn’t intend to sing at all, just read flat off the page. Munakata does, but that’s expected--couldn’t give a bad performance even if he tried. And that’s fine. Seen him up there a hundred times, so why--

It’s not a long song. Not even complicated.

Natural.

He should’ve remembered, what happens on stage, how those moments creep in and blur a thinning line. Awashima’s desperation, Isana’s melancholy, Fushimi’s reluctance. Should’ve remembered that and not--

\--paper rooms and shadow halls, shared smoke, characters against his arm--

\--the way the eyes across from his draw in all the light, street lamps and candle flame and stage lanterns bright as morning through the windows--

\--back room, side alley, bedroom glances in places where secrets run to skin and deeper, kept in a gesture, a silence--

\--a smile he knows, knows in every way there is, in a song--

\--a look--a--

\--touch--

“That’s quite _enough._ ”

Music jars to a halt. _Too close_ , his first thought, his second to his hand held a hair’s breadth away from the curve of a jaw--breath stirs against his thumb. He drops it, in time with Munakata stepping back and back again. _Too quick._

“Remind me, Monsieur Isana, of what you’d said earlier.” The Duke’s voice is tightly conversational. “About this song relying on the _connections_ between its performers? That was rather well done without, it seems. Unless--”

Isana’s between them, somehow, steps in and gives Mikoto someone else to look to. Damage control, through and through. “Well, naturally, your Grace, Suoh-san has been at your side through all of our rehearsals, long enough to have a grasp of Awashima’s role and mannerisms, I’m sure.” Finishes on a winning smile aimed right at him, below frantic eyes. He shrugs on the cue, mimes indifference as best he can. “I’m surprised myself, I never would have imagined you to have an instinct for performance. Though, perhaps that is the effect of Totsuka-san’s writing--surely it has passed its test with this, hasn’t it?”

Everything an excuse could be, all perfect sense and explanations swung right back to why they’d been put up to this in the first place. Only the Duke’s smile still spreads, thin and drawn as a snarl. “Yes, it is quite convincing, isn’t it? So much so that one wonders--is it even necessary?”

Can’t make out Totsuka’s face from here, but he knows too well what it looks like--struck colorless and crushed. That face, the face he swore he’d never have to make again as he’d hounded them on board, he’d swore--Isana shifts over, hides the clench of his fists with his body. “I am afraid I don’t understand.”

“Well, it seems quite clear to me that our princess loves this Underworld king, does she not? Why not just have her stay, then? She’ll have all she desires, be a queen, no less.” That sneer widens like a split in the skin. If only. “Yes, I quite like that better. No need for this painfully poignant goodbye at all, no need for--”

“No.” Totuska’s up on his feet, skinny shoulders braced on fragile wrists, but there’s defiance in him Mikoto’s never heard before. “No, I’m sorry, your Grace but that ending would strip the very heart from this story. Without the song, it loses all meaning, all the ideals--”

“I seem to recall our contract being that this production is beholden to the generosity of my contributions, and not to the sentimental drivel of a writer’s fancy.” The Duke’s rising too, and if he makes one move--Mikoto will go right through Isana if he needs to, money be damned, if he _dares_ \--

“Yes, my lord, of course.” Isana’s hands are fluttering wildly, fanning out flames already beyond his control. “Only, from a practical angle, at the very least, to change the entire ending a day from opening night would be nigh impossible, doubtless you must understand?”

“Ah, so, now you, too, have a mind to dictate what I may or may not do, hm?”

“Not at all, no, I simply meant--”

“We will end the play how I see fit. I’m confident in the prodigious talent of your writer, at least--I’m sure he’ll be able to draw up a new finale in time. Now, that will be the true test.”

“I refuse, I simply refuse, Isana-san you know I can’t, it’s against the very idea of love, of--”

“Do not doubt for a moment I cannot find another hack poet--”

“Your Grace, please, let’s just discuss this--”

“--this nonsense of true love hiding in looks and secrets, no, it will end _my_ way--”

“Your way is _not_ \--”

“Gentlemen, that is _enough_.”

A handful of words is all it takes. In the sudden silence Munakata looks every bit like the king he’s dressed up as, moves like that title he’d left behind. Past them ( _past him_ ), slow and stately along the descent off stage. “To think that such a disintegration of civility can be caused by something as simple as a song--or, perhaps, there exists another reason for your unrest, my _dear_ Duke?” Almost sweet, in all the right places, knocks the noble slack-jawed and stunned. “I would that you permit me to put those misgivings to rest, if I may.”

Hasn’t heard that tone in a long while, the tone that scatters thoughts to torn sheets and slick heat so suddenly that the Duke can hardly put his words together. “On the stage, I saw--you were looking so--and with _him_ \--”

“Nothing more than an act, your Grace.” A calculated stop, so very close and just out of reach. “You bid me to perform, and what else can I give you but the very best of my ability, regardless of the circumstances? It was only the knowledge of your eyes upon me that stirred such a depth of intimacy, but had I known it would cause such distress--perhaps it is my fault, and mine alone, that there remains this doubt in your heart as to the truth of my-- _affection_.”

Doesn’t even need to touch him, this point, but he reaches out anyways, rests a steady hand against the breast of the fine jacket. “I believe there is an invitation, one that has gone too long unanswered. Allow me to accompany you to your estate, this evening--no overbearing managers, no silly writers, no bodyguards. Let me assuage these traitorous pangs of uncertainty, that they may _never_ plague you again.” Fingers run and duck into neat folds, inch closer to what must be agony now. “Then, in the morning, we can have a reasonable conversation as to how this story will end.”

Could’ve asked for the world, right there, and the noble would have razed it to lay it at his feet, but no, just this--a play, a theatre, a handful of lives.

It’ll save them. He’ll save them. Again and again, without a thought.

( _his eyes are on the Duke, and they don’t stray)_

Mikoto feels it, distantly, how the paper crumples, words and nails grinding deep into his palms. Isana’s precious script, ruined upon the rest.

 

\--

 

Thing is, there wasn’t a chance. Maybe they’d borrowed too many, and nothing’s left when it counts. All he’s got is what the rest of them do--Sapphire King in all his edged elegance, striding out through the doors of the Damocles and not looking back.

_The least I can do is trust you._

That was hours ago. No one’s left since. No, that’s not right--Kuroh’s gone too, Isana’s final insistence. Slim-boned with a face too fine to make a threat, of course the Duke allows it. Compromise is already working--time and favors, bought and sold.

_This will cost you._

Hours, and they all stay where they are. Cut-down corpses, waiting. No reason to--no news can come tonight. No, tonight’s all--

_The Duke has paid for his pleasure, and he will--_

Burns the thought out on the last of what’s in his glass. Izumo doesn’t give it a name, knows he doesn’t care. He keeps it coming in silence--walks over, pours a heavy hand, goes back to polishing the same glassware for the tenth time. Doesn’t go down any easier, as many as he’s had, but easy’d give him room to think and to think--

_It is nothing so simple, Suoh._

No words, that’s the thing. No moment pulled aside to--to what? Wouldn’t have stopped him, no, not with that mask on and that role set. But one moment, one moment to say--or just to _know_ , to catch onto something in those depths and--

“Don’t act like you didn’t see this coming.”

Fushimi, a bar stool between them, dressed down though his claws are showing. Never did figure out what his deal is--something to do with Yata, or something to do with Munakata, even. Figured space was enough. Yet now, when everyone else keeps their distance, the _oiran_ ’s the one crossing the lines. “You should’ve ended it when he gave you the chance. It would have been better. For all of us.”

More words at him there than all the months put together, and still he won’t look directly at him--fixes his eyes on the bartop, the trembling clasp of his hands. Every small twitch screams how much he doesn’t want to be here. Mikoto wonders why the hell he bothers, as if the drinks don’t burn enough. “Kind of a shit time to start this.”

A fair warning, an out. Munakata’s fond of his understudy, for some reason, so he wouldn’t--but he’s not in the mood for whatever whorehouse game’s going on, not tonight. For a second it looks like the kid’ll take it, until he twists his hands hands tighter and pulls on that scornful lilt of his. “Start what? Pressing you to actually consider the consequences? Too long overdue, actually, what with all these idiots falling all over themselves with ‘Isn’t it romantic?’ like that’s any kind of excuse. No, we don’t get that luxury. Everyone knows that. _He_ knew that, until you--”

_I had thought it best not to complicate matters._

_A physical understanding, nothing more._

“--well, you’ve had your fun, and now he’s paying for it, god knows where or how when it should’ve been here, it should’ve been done from the start, if you hadn’t gone and--”

The shatter sound stops him, even before Yata comes striding over to whip him around. “ _Assez, Saru, bordel de merde, quel est ton--_ Mikoto-san, your _hand_.”

Pain doesn’t really register, even when he looks down to see the shards slick and red in his grip. He loosens his fist--glass rains down. Blood, too. It’s when the liquor slips into its stead that he starts to feel it. Or maybe it’s been there all along.

“Fucking _hell_.” Izumo, hand on his wrist, lifting it clear of the jagged edges. “What did you _do?_ ”

Could be talking to any of them, or no one--the flatness in his voice given to formless worry. Snaps Fushimi out of his shock, though, enough for him to jerk away from Yata’s slack grasp. “Don’t speak to me in that awful language, Misaki. Don’t speak to me at all.”

Gone, then. Dramatic as ever. Izumo presses a rag under his bleeding hand, guides the other to hold it. “That’s your cue to work out what the hell is going on with that brat--Yata!” Mikoto feels the kid start, somewhere by his shoulder. “Go. Nothing you can do here.”

Harsh. True. Cloth’s turning sticky against his palm as the footsteps fade away. Izumo swings over the bar, pulls him roughly from his seat. “Kamamoto! Take care of this mess. You know what to do.” A shove against the small of his back, pushing him to where the shadows deepen behind the bar front lights. “Come on. The cuts I can fix, at least.”

 

The storeroom’s small, packed tight with bottles and barrels. Only light comes from the one lamp on the one table, just enough for Izumo to make out the glass, tweeze the slivers out--deftly, at least. Not gentle. Some of it might be on purpose. Give him something to concentrate on.

He’s always been good at that. Knowing.

Familiar scene, almost. Cramped shadows, golden head bent over blood that isn’t his own. They’d come so far, and still hadn’t managed to leave anything behind. Maybe there’d been some truth to those curses. Maybe they’d never--

“That was Venetian glass, you know.” A final, stubborn pull. “All this time and you still have no goddamn control over that stupid strength of yours.”

_I have yet to see a more vulgar display._

This, everything about this cuts too close to memory. Izumo’s got no window into the hell in his head, but he reads the signs well enough--tugs his hand over a basin, uncaps one of the nearby bottles with his teeth and pours clear, thin fire over the mess. White shock and nothing more, for a few precious moments.

“And _that_ was high-end import from Russia.” Bandages, from somewhere beneath the table, run roughshod along ragged edges seared clean. “You’re lucky none of these need stitches. Doctor’s fees on top of the rest, as if you can start to afford any of this shit.”

Here he’s tender, despite his words, all measured pressure and careful movements. Different, so the skin won’t remember the other nights, the other kind of light, other kinds of touch. Maybe now’s the time to ask that half-remembered question--how he does it, builds up boundaries and keeps them straight, cuts feeling off at the root and packs it down somewhere till the timing’s right. Until they’ve got the silence, a single lantern, a room where no one goes.

Izumo finishes the wrapping with a tight pull, lets him go. “You’re ok.”

Doesn’t work like it did that first night, but that first night had been draw and desire and this--whatever this is, it’s set too deep. In his veins, in his bones, like a missing limb. No way to think himself out of it, no way but--

Two small glasses appear on the table, and more of that fine liquor trickles into them. Izumo braces an elbow on the table, lifts one up to the flame. “For the pain.”

No need to clarify it, where it starts or where it gathers. Mikoto takes the other in his good hand and they go in time, no ritual beyond habit. No taste, either, but that’s not what this is for. Glass meets wood. Izumo pours again. Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

 

“Killed them, sometimes. Back home.” Takes half the bottle to loose a tongue like that. “Maybe not in Yoshiwara, those big districts, but where we were--they’d kill ‘em, the ones who ran with the girls. Not all. Enough to make a point, I guess.”

He didn’t ask for this. Izumo plays his cards close to his chest, always has. Mikoto’s never needed him to show them, so of course for him he does. Izumo had done his own thing, back on the docks, relied on his own strengths. Took him by the brothels more often. Mikoto’d been too rough back then for that. He’d never asked. Not then. Not now. Still.

“Left the bodies in the alleys. Looked drunk, till you saw the blood.” Another precise pour--his hand stays steady. “Used to wonder why anyone would risk it. Here we were, trying to make it through another day--why throw it all away, on what, one, two nights of pleasure? And the girls--maybe half pretty enough, in good light. Nothing worth dying over. Nothing like ours.” Tips back the shot, smooth as ever. “But they were to someone. Things you learn.”

“It’s not--” The words come thick, rebel against his tongue and clot in his throat. Lying to Izumo is lying to himself, and he can’t. Not anymore. Not the way--

 

_Awashima stays at his side when the carriage pulls off--some sick luck, that they come back right to catch the fallout. She’s apologized, of course, with her sweet talk and sweeter offer--let her come along as well, show how the scene was meant to be and then perhaps--but it’s too late. They’re too late._

_“You said you trust him,” she says, long after there’s nothing else to watch but streets filling with strangers. “Will you? Now, when you must mean it?”_

_Heavy, heavy as the thoughts that coil into memory along every inch of his skin. Haven’t stopped since the song, their song, only now--now other hands, other eyes, another mouth, and it’s an act and a lie but he does it so well, he has to and he just can’t stop thinking--_

_She doesn’t wait on his answer, just leaves him with the weight._

_“It always ends like this.”_

 

“It doesn’t end, you know.” Izumo’s got his eyes to the ceiling, still, voice coming from far off. “Even if this Duke lets up, moves on, there’s always another one. ‘S how it is, long as this place keeps running.”

Hadn’t thought of that. Of any of this, really. Couldn’t afford to, dockside, and the habit carries. One thing at a time, until it all comes apart. There’d be more nights like this. Countless nights, because he can’t buy a way out and even if he could--well, they’d lose something. Everything.

The cups stay emptied, Izumo’s fingers slack around the bottle neck. Follows the gaze to where it’s caught, somewhere in the eaves.

Paper cranes.

Long strings of them, dripping down like the candle wax up in the attic rooms. Hundred or so, maybe, and pieces slip into place--the pile of old newspaper Izumo’d cleared off the table, save for one sheet to catch the glass. Only he’d never taken to folding, not even when Totsuka’d spent a week or two filling damp corners with lopsided animals.

No, this--

_“Oh, the flower? Well, you will have to look to Awashima-kun for that particular art--she has taken to it rather more naturally than I.”_

Smarter than him, Izumo is, but just as fucked. There’s some legend, isn’t there? Fold a thousand, gods grant you a wish. Awashima would know, _miko_ and all. _I know better. She does_. But he still keeps her prayers for her. Cuts her paper for more.

Something else comes to him, then, looking up for however long. “You let Kamamoto run the bar.”

Rough scratch of a match, smoke pluming up, wreathing around paper necks. “Yeah. I do.”

They fall the same. Only thing is, Izumo knows how to catch himself, draw a line and make the good excuses. He knows control.

Mikoto never has. Goes right through, to the crash.

 

\--

 

They finish the bottle. He has to leave. The room presses too tight, the walls and halls and every corner where there’s memory tucked, waiting to lunge. _As long as this place keeps running._ Izumo lets him go.

Streets are easier--they’ve never taken the walk together, from the Damocles to the flat. Always apart. Part of the act. Doesn’t know why he’s headed there, only if he goes anywhere else there’s--

 _\--_ _leading him back when the shadowed doorways and forgotten side streets just don’t cut it anymore, and still it takes too long, because out here they don’t have to hide and the rush clouds his head more than all the drinks and all the turns, a map carved in muscle memory, skin memory--stone and glass and flesh and heat and too much and not enough--_

Flat’s dark and he’s alone. Half-expects Totsuka or Anna, but no. Seen them, back there--Totsuka at the piano, pen to paper, Anna trailing Awashima up the stairs, finding somewhere to lay her head. Not here. She knows. Saw it in his eyes. Hers.

He should sit. Lay down. Sleep off the spin of the world. He doesn’t dream, but tonight he might. Might remember them, too, and that’s--

_Walks right by, no time, no chance to reach out. No silk, no knots--the simple elegance of a pressed suit, something Western hands would know their way around. How easy satin slides off, how quick those buttons open along the line of the throat and down, down--_

Ends up by the window, slouched up against the night. Glass licks cool and smooth along his brow, too familiar to pull away. Turns to long hands and deft fingers when his eyes close, so he can’t, can’t do anything but watch the Damocles glow bright and hungry in the dark.

_It is my home--if I have it in my hands to secure that--_

Pointless to wait. A carriage pulling up means something’s gone off, something somewhere too far for him to do shit about it. For all his spite, Fushimi’s not wrong. Never was. His hand burns-- the wounds rip on the clench, blood starting sluggish and sickly warm. All his life, this body’s been the one thing under his control. One night and it goes to pieces--turning inside out trying to fix a wound it can’t see, can’t reach, hell, didn’t even know it had till it festers beneath the skin.

_We are not characters in one of Totsuka-san’s maudlin romances._

No, because Totsuka doesn’t know this. This thing that has to be drowned out before it turns him mad, this thing working its rebellion through his veins. This thing he’s seen beneath the Duke’s mask and manners, the thing he _hates_ \--and now here’s the reason, pathetic and clear. It’s in him too, claws and all. Set. Savage. No better. No--

 

_“I made you promise.” Anna’s voice hums against his shoulder, quiet in the dusk. “That wasn’t fair.”_

_Been a while since they’ve had this kind of solitude, where she’ll say things she expects him to understand. Sometimes he does, sometimes he doesn’t, but this time sounds important so he gives in and asks, “Why?”_

_Her hand comes up, taps his chest alongside the beat of his heart--once, twice. “It’s too heavy now, to be careful. It’s how you know it’s true--more than one strand, all tangled up. That’s okay. You’re happy.”_

_The words shape something, just out of reach, some ancient knowledge he knows in his bones but can’t remember for shit. He tells her as much and she shakes her head, smiling like it’s their little joke. “You feel it enough. Reisi needs words. That’s the hard part. But Mikoto--” Here she bites her lip, her fingers still. When she looks up she’s not scared, but old, so old behind her eyes. “You have to remember. It’s not like what’s in the stories, not all of it. But it’s real. It’s there. Even when you might not--”_

_That’s when Totsuka returns with too many bags and boxes and she clams up, scurries away to help. Doesn’t say more about it, after that, just catches his gaze once and gives one of her slow, serious nods, like she’s sure he’s understood._

_And the way the warmth settles in, just a touch deeper than before, well, maybe he does._

 

Warmth.

Not some final, epic answer that sweeps through, no. Hell still growls in the back of head, aches and mutters along to the alcohol steadily undoing him. But underneath somewhere is the warmth, pulsing weakly. One lit corner in one dark room. One flame in a window he can’t see, but he can shut his eyes, perhaps, and--

The door splinters open, gouges against the wall as he turns, too slow, and Kuroh’s staggering through, bent nearly double under--

Figure bowed like a broken bow, leaning heavily across his shoulders, pale and breathless.

_Munakata._

Everything goes cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've watched a lot of tango for a chapter that has absolutely none of it in there whatsoever--hope I managed to keep some of the feel in there, at least, as I found out jealousy is terribly difficult to convey. This was actually one of the first chapters I built up in my head visually, so idk it's sort of weird the way it came out, being largely internal. Mikoto's not a very internal character either, so that was fun ._.
> 
> We're getting close to the end, so thank you for sticking with me so long <3 I hope I can keep meeting your expectations :)


	9. Act 9: The Show Must Go On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter handles a problematic scene in the movie where there was an attempted rape. The elements are not the same given the characters involved, however there is non-consensual drugging for that purpose and mentions of the aftereffects. The act does not happen, but the circumstances could be triggering. I tried my best to shape the scene without sensationalizing anything, and I welcome any critique that you guys may have about how to handle writing these kind of situations in the future.

_It unraveled that night, or tried to. Even now I think of it, strands writhing apart like creatures in torment, straining across the divide. They are not meant to be undone, and yet--_

_I did not see it, of course. Seri’s chambers were not unfamiliar to me, but that night it was not the strangeness of my bed that kept me awake. It was the echo of the rending, trembling through our tangled hearts. Not my own, but mine._

_Maybe if I had--_

_No, I will not waste the ink. Those thoughts have held me long enough, and it is not my regret to bear. I was a child then. I am old enough now to let go._

_Seri did not sleep either, for her heart was like mine in some ways, knotted up tight to someone in a strange love that refused to be named. Her hands were quick in the lamp light. Cranes, dozens of cranes, tumbling over her perfumes and jewels._

_After a time I came over, and she showed me what to do._

_We prayed through the hours._

_We were not heard._

 

\--

 

“Suoh-san!”

He’s across the room with the cry--he needs--

Munakata lifts his head. His eyes are strange, somehow, flat bright and--thin, almost. But then he’s pitching forward and Mikoto has him, finally, but not like this, he never--

Kuroh straightens, panting, words lashing out tight with fury. “That baseborn _cretin_ \--he drugged the wine, I am sure of it. I arranged an escape as soon as I realized, before--”

Stops dead, as if that could erase it, erase the intent that splits him hot and sour sick from throat to gut. “I’ll kill him.”

A soft groan against his neck. Munakata’s hands come up ( _slow, slow as wings clipped and weighed)_ , rest heavy on his chest. Grounds him. Grounds them both. “You will do nothing--of the sort.”

Usually so quick, those words, not like this, not falling dull and deadpan. Splinters the slow rage up and through him like shrapnel. Kuroh’s face has gone deadly still--threat can live in it, after all. “Unforgivable. Yashiro-sama will hear of this, and measures _will_ be taken. No amount of money buys such unspeakable action.” His eyes are sure, so sure. “I promise you, he’ll not let this stand.”

There’s a jagged piece of blame waiting to fire off, only Munakata’s fingers catch against his shirt, steadying a slip and forcing his hold to adjust. Kuroh takes the moment to decide there’s nothing more to say, turns on his heel and pulls the ravaged door as closed as it can stay. They’re alone.

_Not like this._

_I’ll kill him. I’ll--_

“Suoh.” The voice hitches with effort. “You are--”

 _Shit._ He eases the grip as much as he can bear, a shallow sigh washing ( _too warm_ ) across his skin. _No control--that stupid strength of yours._ He’s never been gentle. He’s never _had_ to be, not with Munakata matching him at every mark and move, irritating and proud and--

_Not like this._

Stillness follows, long, hammered out in steady beats of blood. Can’t tell whose it is, this close. Closer, when the touch travels up, laces around his neck. Slow, trembling. Even now, he’s--

“You reek of liquor.”

More a choke than a laugh, and he can’t help the curl of his fists into the jacket marked with the wrong scent, the wrong feel. “‘M sorry, I’m--”

“Don’t.” Almost sounds like himself, there, if it wasn’t for the shortness. “Don’t--say a word”

Makes it some kind of true, the kind he doesn’t want to know, can’t afford to know. So he gives himself to this--the silence, the gradual tightening of the fingers in his hair, on the blades of his shoulder, the soft shudders that break through him. Coming back in pieces, but here, at least. _Here_.

It was almost--

\-- _he’s paying for it, god knows where or how_ \--

Cuts him sober, that barbed memory. What are the words for this, the actions--why the hell can’t he do anything besides stand here--why can’t he--

Munakata curses softly, wonderingly. “You’re shaking.”

“It’s not me,” reflex answers. “You’re--”

Hands slip free, brace against his shoulders as he pushes away--a few inches, at most, and still Mikoto has to will himself to let him get that much farther. The tremors stay.

Ah.

The gaze fixed on him has cleared, somehow. Stillwater calm. “I am fine.”

 _No._ Nothing about this is fine, but there’s only ever been one way to lie about it. Some wrong impulse wrecks its way down his spine, presses itself to his mouth. Munakata’s hands go rigid, force him back. “No, Suoh--” shuts his eyes, shuts him out-- “I don’t know what was given to me, if it has dissipated or--”

“Munakata.” Need, cracking his voice to a rawness he doesn’t recognize. “ _Please._ ”

It isn’t right. None of this is, and still the push gives into a drag and they collide, like that first night, like every disaster since. Taste is all wrong, too rich and too sweet but the _heat_ \--that’s the same, burning through, burning clean as the liquor Munakata’s chasing along his tongue in rough, insistent strokes--trying to forget or trying to rewrite those things he _can’t_ \--

His legs hit the couch, off-balance and down so hard the impact bruises through cushion and cloth, jars out the breath his lungs have forgotten. Burn stays, when he draws back--light from the window, the Damocles, slanting shadows into his eyes, something struggling to wake. Ends when it does.  _No._ Mikoto’s hands go to hold him, steady, on the crest of his hips as he bows, onto him, over him, one knee forcing a hot line along the inside of his thigh. Fingers span his jaw, drag him open. Too rich, too sweet, but he’ll take it--take the poison, take the fury, take everything if it’ll just--

A gasp, sudden, bitter with blood. He wrenches away, drops his head to Mikoto’s shoulder as the coughs seize through. _Shit_. His palm goes to the back of his neck, feels the tendons strain as he curls a soft touch into his hair. _This, too, on top of it all._

Takes time, measured with the violence of something that’s been too long choked down. Hell, maybe it has. Another part of that flawless act, ripping him apart, and when it’s done--

“Your hand.”

“What?”

Those fast recoveries always get him. He straightens and Mikoto’s touch slips around, curves against his face. Dark strands catch in the bandage folds. Oh. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” True enough, stacked up against what could’ve--but Munakata’s fixed on it, half a glare when a steady bloom of red dots through the tight layers. Always something else, someone else, like he isn’t--forget it. Mikoto leans in, presses distraction down the hollow of his throat. “Dropped a glass, ‘s fine. Izumo--”

There are marks littering his collarbone, stark under the warp of his shirt. Dark. Red. Shape of--

Teeth.

Goes so tense it hurts, suddenly, keenly. Munakata feels it, maybe before he does--quick, so quick to rise, to turn. Away.

“I should not have come here.” Within moments his back is to him, wrinkles where his hands fisted hungry, desperate--or were they there before, were they-- “Whatever was in that--regardless, it has run its course, at least. I need to see Isana-san, there is time yet to--”

That drug must’ve gone to his head, some of it, how long it takes him to stand and follow, the heaviness in his limbs. Yeah, that’s it. Has to be. “The hell are you on about?”

“The ending.” Still not looking at him, just doing up buttons, smoothing out lines. “I can still salvage it, as long as Isana-san has not made any rash decisions. Unlikely, but with Kuroh-kun’s influence I cannot be sure--”

More marks, raw scrapes leering from under starched collars, inky hair. The words go on and he’s not quite listening--the shape of it looms out all the same. “You’re still going through with it.”

Hands stutter. Drop. Curl just shy of a clench. “I must.”

Wanted a moment. This is it, same play, same end. Only now he knows nothing changes. Now he knows--“You don’t have to.”

“Suoh--”

“ _Look_ at me.” Almost wants to take it back when he does, for once. How easy he sees the walls go up. How _easy_ it is, for him, even now. “We’ll leave. Now, tonight. Take Anna and get the fuck away from this place.”

Open cages. It’s all he’s got--but it’s _possible_. This isn’t Yoshiwara, no dockside red-light sprawl, and Isana holds them to nothing but paper and faith. They have a thousand ways to disappear, tickets bought to anywhere and tracks that run blind through countless borders. He’s got enough--they’ve got enough, and there’s a frantic beating behind those still eyes that knows it just as well. Some part of him that remembers sky. _Please._

“You are serious.” Gives him nothing, that voice. Nothing but the words. “You would leave everything, everyone, for this?”

That’s deliberate, the careful phrasing, the means to pull memory together and roll it through behind his eyes--attic rooms, gas lit streets. Totsuka at his piano and Izumo at the bar, backstage banter over songs on stage. This place, this flat--as much a home as he’s ever had, this gleaming city and--

“Yes.”

Can’t remember if anything’s ever come so easy. He would. To never see another mark, to never wait out another crawling night. He would. Every time.

And Munakata--

Just looks at him, just like he’d asked, that maddening way of his. Like he’s a line to memorize, a role to fit to. That look that takes in everything, and gives nothing back. He’s never learned to read it, all this time. Never had to, never needed to because--

_The least I can do is trust you._

A flicker, break in the lights. The Damocles, lanterns going out for the night. His gaze shifts. It’s all it takes.

“Well, then, perhaps it was not a mistake, my presence here tonight.” Clipped, calculated, swift off the tongue. “If only for this affair to come to its inarguable close.”

 

\--

 

_The first cut. I feel it like the edge of a blade my body has never known. Paper tears in my hands._

_Seri puts a palm to my forehead, lightly, as if she knows that is not from where the ache stems. Perhaps she does. Perhaps she has felt it too._

_It is only the echo of the hurt. Only an echo._

_I cannot imagine the root._

 

\--

 

Numbness lasts for one breath.

Anger melts out the next.

That line’s getting fucking old. This entire scene, over and over like one of Totsuka’s scrapped dramas. “You gonna pull this shit again?”

“I start it, I end it--that was the requirement you passed on to Awashima-kun, as I recall.” Makes use of the new dark, angles the shadows to harshness with that subtle tilt of his chin. “It is high time I see to its fulfillment. This night and the very circumstances leading up to it have well proven there is little to gain from continuance, and far too much to lose.”

Truth clashes in his ears--nothing he can deny, but there’s more, always more than he wants to see. “Think it’s that easy? Think I don’t know that fucking act of yours--”

“Spare me the vulgarity, if you please.” Words, too many, pushing between, pushing away. “Whatever you believe matters naught--I have made my decision. If you have any of the care you claim, then you will acquiesce to it.”

Easy, so damn easy for him to walk off, how is it--doesn’t realize he’s reaching, not till the pain lances down his arm and still he holds too tight. “No. I won’t. That--” No word low enough, ugly enough-- “He would have _fucked_ you like that and you’re still--”

“Do not dare to speak to me as if I am ignorant of that intention.” Sparks a fire to match his, the realest thing in his eyes. “And what, pray tell, did you do to prevent it? What would you have done--this?” With a vicious twist he drags his wrist free and up to the light--new bruises wring his bones, the outline Mikoto knows will fit his hand. “So much for your talk of autonomy, of _trust_. If your noble ideal of protection is to shackle my will to yours through this brute show of strength, well, please enlighten me as to the difference between that and the wayward advances I’ve suffered tonight.”

_Set. Savage. No better._

_But I--_

“Come to think of it, spare me an answer. I am sure it will be one I have heard well before.” Something must’ve crossed his face, because there’s that thin smile, edged keen as any of his blades. He adjusts his cuff over the mottled skin, an absent preening. “Or did you honestly believe that you were the first one, the only one with whom I’ve entertained this sort of entanglement? These acts of passion are as much an artform as any other pursuit--lifeless, unless there are experiences from which to draw, and extensive, relentless practice.”

 _It doesn’t end--long as this place keeps running._ And he hadn’t thought of the past, either. Hadn’t thought of how cleanly Munakata’d cut himself out of those traded stories. Hadn’t asked, because some part--

“You know what I am. I have never pretended to be otherwise.” Foxes, demons in beautiful, immovable masks--the kind fixed upon him now. “And I know you, Suoh Mikoto, you and the dozens of others who have filled your role, played your part. It always ends like this.”

Awashima’s echo. Rehearsed. And still Mikoto can’t bring himself to move when he turns, crosses the room.

_Just like that, then?_

_Yes, just like that._

Filmy memory, one of dark rooms coming full circle. A pause at the door, only he hasn’t called out. Not aloud. “Do not bother coming by the theatre. There is no longer a place for you there.”

The door opens. Shuts. Footsteps trail away.

He shouldn’t expect them to turn back. He doesn’t.

They don’t.

 

\--

 

_It’s Izumo who comes for me in the morning. The Duke will be arriving shortly, and I am still the Damocles’ secret to keep--perhaps the only one that is left. He’ll take me home. Tatara, Seri, they have work to do, this last day before the finale._

_We pass the stage. Empty, but for a gleam in the rafters. I do not dare look, and we go by too quickly--Izumo’s strides are long and brisk, as if he wishes to leave all of this behind._

_I think that I may too, the way it fists around my heart and chokes._

_Our door is in shambles and Mikoto is not there. Izumo does not seem surprised by this, nor very angry, which is strange--but our thread is an easy one, just scratching the surface. Still, he opens his room to me, the only one that still locks._

_“Stay there, just till I get back.”_

_Another strange bed, but I am tired and small and a child still though I had thought myself more. The sheets smell of smoke, but I find comfort in it, comfort in knowing that even though Izumo’s string is loose to mine, it drags heavy as an anchor chain to Mikoto’s. He will find him, bring him home._

_These are the small shreds of hope I gather, curled up like an animal around the pain that beats steady, steady, into sleep._

 

\--

 

Steps. Izumo’s, breaking over scraps of tile and debris. Would be him. Always is.

Small space, doesn’t take long to see him. Lean legs cut across his field of vision, over to sit on the low ledge that edges the rooftop. Balances well, like the liquor’s been bled out of him. But he’s been years behind the bar--not surprising. He gestures to the cigarette husks littering the ground.

“That all of them?”

Mikoto shrugs, chimney grating against his back. All he could find. His lungs feel drowned, heavy, thick as the pressure in his head. Hurts to breathe.

( _This what it’s like, that remnant, that sickness, is this why--)_

“Ending’s set.” Can’t see the Damocles from where he is, but Izumo can, angled just so. “Duke’s making a trip in, should you--”

“Not my problem.” Words go to ash in his mouth. Keeps them short. Izumo looks at him.

“Ah.” Looks away. “Guess that’s for the best.”

No pleasure in it, seeing his warnings ring true. But he’s never been the type. Maybe he should be. Maybe Mikoto would’ve listened, if that’d been the case. Or maybe they would have never been here at all. After a while, Izumo leans forward, lets his hands fall loosely between his knees.

“Once this is done, once the show’s run its course--” He tries something like a smile. “We don’t have to stay here. City’s full of places. Been too long, anyways.”

_There is no longer a place for you here._

Claws for purchase, somewhere inside--the madness, or the guilt. If last night had a different answer, different ending--he would’ve left this as easily as Izumo offers to. Left without a thought. Something wrong with that, but he’s having a hard time feeling anything that isn’t.

“No.” _The Damocles is my home._ “‘S fine.”

The pause drags into silence. Finally, Izumo laughs, short and sharp as a strike. “The fuck it is.” He stands, holds out a hand. “Get some sleep at least. You need it.” Eyes harden when he doesn’t move. “Anna can’t rest if you won’t. Come on.”

Cheap bastard. He grabs on, lets that skinny arm haul him up. The nausea hits all at once, heaves through his gut in a bitter wave, but Izumo has him. Always does. The hold’s wrong, the feel’s wrong, but it’s all he’s got.

All that’s left.

Izumo steadies him down the stairs, and keeps the silence.

 

He does sleep, surprisingly. Fits and starts that drag him deep then wring him out, but better than nothing. The light changes, every time he wakes, digging under his thrown up arm and clawing the dark to red behind his lids. He can’t press it out--too bright. And still, somehow, he slips off. Again and again, like a losing fight.

No dreams. Just fog on the edge of falling, taking shapes. A murmur. A glance. Footsteps fading away, stopping. Turning around and striding back--

That carries into waking, but the rhythm’s off. Heels, staccato quick, telling him who it is before the knock hesitates against the door. Tells Izumo too, how fast he hears him bolt from Totsuka’s room to answer it.

Awashima’s greeting is low, then trips up, suddenly. He can imagine the wreck she sees, just past Izumo’s shoulder. _Pathetic_. Izumo breathes out a quiet hush, shuffles them out into the hall and coaxes the knob to shut behind them.

They’re out there a long while, voices peeking through the cracks. Can’t fall asleep to them, stuck on straining for answers he can’t follow, shouldn’t care for. But the words are lost under the tones--angry, mostly, muted as they are. The replies climb over each other, louder and louder till they crest in meaningless phrases-- _I don’t know, I can’t ask, You think I wanted this, There’s nothing to be done_ \--and crash back down to murmurs. Over and over in tides.

Ends abruptly. Something thuds against the wall, and the steps take up a familiar retreat. He knows it’s not--but he feels the pit of him drop, slow to learn the difference, fixed on the meaning. _Gone._

Shit. Needs more than sleep, this.

Izumo takes his time coming back in, walks easy when he does. Mikoto hears him cross the floor, feels him by the foot of the couch. Deciding something, or just--

Heavy sound on the coffee table, paper on paper. “Severance.”

No need to see how much is there. He knows what it’s worth, what it’s meant to buy. Nights tallied out in banknotes. Business exchanges.

_(Salted earth.)_

“Bastard,” he says, not sure why, not sure who. Izumo’s got no reply for him--already said all he can. Best to leave things where they lie.

Fog comes back, eventually. The money stays untouched.

 

“You should eat something.” Totsuka, softly, somewhere above him. “Mikoto.”

Strange to hear his name for once, almost unreal. It’s enough to make him open his eyes. Some dusky hour--light’s poor on the back of the couch. Behind him, the sound of a plate eased onto the table, then warmth over his shoulder, just shy of a touch. Stays a few moments, but then he thinks better of it, pulls back. “It’s just _onigiri_. Ah, I guess they’ll keep.”

Talking just to fill--usually he’s better at knowing when the time’s right. Then again, can never tell with Totsuka, even less so now, maybe. Yet somehow they’d always--

Maybe he’s just got a bad fix for impossible people.

Can feel him turn, leave him be--only he doesn’t. He sits heavily, like a fall, leans back against the couch. Keeps that not-quite contact, the soft heat of his shoulders grazing against his own in some odd, intimate angle.

“I know what you thought--what you think of them. All the stories.” He speaks slower than he writes, opposite of frantic. “You never said anything, but I could tell. I mean, living as we did, you can’t really believe in those kind of dreams, right? All the happy endings, the enchantments, the--love.” He stumbles over that, like he hasn’t said it a thousand times. “It was hard for me too, at times. Kind of like now.”

Trying something--like those slum healers slipping their flint into festered wounds, bleeding them out. Doesn’t want this, doesn’t _need_ \--but Totsuka has that storyteller spell, and Mikoto’s spent too long listening when no one else would.

“Imagine my surprise, when you arrived at our doorstep with a _wife_ , and then fall headlong into the kind of romance--well, the kind I’ve only ever read about. Hoped for.” Slight shake of a laugh, there, rippling through. “But, at least I could be near it. At least I could finally see--and I thought if I could take just a little bit from that, write just one piece that actually meant something, then that would be enough. That’s everything I could want.” Feels a shift, feels his gaze. “If I’d known that this would happen, if I’d known that the song would undo the very thing I meant to--”

“Not your fault.”

It isn’t. Got nothing to do with him at all. He’ll be damned if this mess breaks one more thing, and even if he can’t quite look at him right now, he still--

_Careful, we’re all on the line here._

_He could bring ruin upon everything._

**_We_ ** _could--_

Totsuka sighs, but when he speaks again it’s with the soft echo of what’d challenged the Duke, stood its ground. “You know, I’ve lived here a lot longer than you have, Mikoto. I’ve known Munakata-san a lot longer, too. I know how good he is. How far he’ll go. I’ve seen it.”

Those gap years. And Munakata could keep them to himself, spin them how he liked, but he wasn’t the only one living them. Forgot that.

“But in all that time, all those nights and all those plays, and even the few that weren’t quite all an act--” Rambling, and he stops, cuts back to the heart. “He’s never been as real as he is when he’s with you. That’s what wrote the song--all I did was move my pen around it. And you can think I’m a fool to believe in these things, but I can’t create from what’s not there and I know, like I know the words, the music, I _know_ he lo--”

“Stop.”

He does, surprisingly. Or not. Another sigh, the sound of a nail tracing idly over the floor. “Guess those aren’t my lines to say.”

 _Makes it some kind of real_. Can’t afford that, not now, not after last night. He needs to hold onto ice-cut eyes, marks on his skin, that easy, careless calm--mouth like a sword, driven right through. He needs to, or he might--

_Totsuka-san is the only one I trust--to voice the true feelings behind our performances._

No. No, what’s true is that blood money on the table, the Damocles closing up like a cage. What’s true is watching him walk out again and again and _never looking back._

Totsuka feels him tense, or maybe he just reads it in the air, the way he can when he actually cares to. Hesitates a bit, but stands in the end. The touch connects, this time--the barest whisper of fingers upon his shoulder.

“I had to try.”

Said more to himself than anyone, and then he slips off, padding softly to whichever room will have him. Mikoto stares down the dusk light, till it fades off into dark.

 

He does eat, eventually. Not about to starve himself like some tragic fucking hero--that story’s done with him. He eats, and when the shadows and that careful quiet get too much, he leaves. Can’t spend another night seeing those beckoning lights come on, like they always do. Always will.

_For as long as this theatre has the means to open its doors._

That’s a bitch, learning how good his memory is when what he needs is to forget _._

The streets don’t help, but they’ll take him, swallow him up in the noise and the glamour like they do everything else. No one to follow this time, and though he makes all the wrong turns he still ends up places he knows too well. That shit sense of direction, leading him to ghosts on stone stairs and alleys, crowded up against walls. Tries not to look, to think--but his body still betrays him.

Just walk on, find paths he doesn’t remotely recognize. The city yawns wide, bares its gullet and the soft dark of its underbelly. Like Tokyo, like every glittering place, there’s rot if you get just lost enough. Cobbles rutted with glass and gutter runoff, pockets where the crowds either turn on you or turn away.

Girls call from corners and doorways, that fast and loose accent he barely understands, but what they’re selling doesn’t need words. Some part of him considers it--considers the straightforward price, the few moments of thoughtless pleasure it might buy him.

\-- _only you’ll remember and that’s all you’ll do, remember with every inch of you and every thought of him, you know it all so well--and when you’re there in the dark your hands won’t bear the weight and your mouth won’t hold the taste and she’d never know how to call the fire into your skin and burn you clean not like he does not like him no not like--_

He’d left the money, anyways.

Big enough to bury him, this city. He could walk for hours, down to the river that splits it like a dirty vein or up to where the slums cluster against broken hillsides. He could walk far enough to lose the way back.

_\--no longer a place for you--_

So maybe it’s no surprise he ends up at the station. Choked with people, late as it is, sucking in air like curdled steam. Ticket board looms overhead, lines to places he doesn’t recognize, prices marked out and set. The crowd parts roughly around him as he counts up the cost of a new life.

Enough. They’ve always had enough.

Except--

_Have I ever before wavered in the fulfillment of my duty?_

That’s the real price. And Munakata, weighing it all against one life ( _his life_ ) and making a choice. No matter what Mikoto would give, no matter what he already has, he’d never tip the scale against it. And that’s--

Truth. Just like he’d asked for.

He could leave. The signboards tell it, the streams of people dragging against him, sweeping careless as the sea. There’s nothing to stop him, nothing to keep him. Izumo, Totsuka, Anna--they’re fine, set, better than he could’ve hoped. There’s nothing more to give them, nothing that the theatre doesn’t provide. His ties have been severed, neatly, a stack of bills to prove it.

He could leave.

But he knows even before he turns, before his feet remember that very first path through the strangling streets, he knows he won’t. All this time he’d thought of cages, coaxing them open, breaking them into sky. All this time, and he hadn’t noticed.

The Damocles had closed around him, too.

 

Lock’s fixed, by the time he gets back. He doesn’t have the key. Thinks briefly of the roof ( _not the back door passages, not the tatami rooms_ ) when there’s a careful click and Anna’s face appears in a sliver against the frame.

She shouldn’t be up this late. Shouldn’t open doors at the slightest sound, either, but that’s Anna. Knowing.

_Can’t rest if you won’t._

That, too. Set herself too far and too deep in him, the furthest he’d let anyone. Furthest he’d thought he would.

She lets him through without a word, keeps her quiet as he settles back onto the couch and lets her wall him in. She’s grown, or something, the weight and warmth more solid than he remembers--but it’s been a long while since she’s had to moor him like this. Might even be the first. Her hand comes up, stills over that familiar place above his heart. A pause, and then she curls it closed around something that might be more than air.

Odd. His chest feels tight, flooded with a slow, hollow beat like her fingers have knotted in the quick of him. Some vague, impossible thought slips through, that if she pulls just so that’d be the end of it, the end of something--can’t tell what, can’t quite care only maybe he should, maybe he--

Another breath and she lets go, tucks her hands deep into the space between them like she’s suddenly afraid of them. He doesn’t ask. She curls in. Silence takes its place.

Easier to bear, with Anna. Never needed words.

So maybe it’s no surprise, when the bars of the windows grow long against the wall, that they come. “There, huh?”

She nods, prints the syllables into his skin. “Always.”

 _You don’t have to ask--you know._ “He’s--planning something.”

Small shrug, and her fingers twist against his side in some kind of half-formed prayer. “The show. Tomorrow. They all tangle--I can’t see.”

Course not. He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, what the fragments may mean or why he’d think they would. Spent too long under the lights and the stories, so long he’d almost started believe--what? Those illusions Totsuka built for his stage, built so well you forget they can’t live beyond it. He’d forgotten what was real.

Real. The money on the table, the shadows on the walls, Anna fixed beside him. Real. The show opening the next night, with or without him, holding all of them hostage for one more day. One more day, but that would be it. Life goes on--always does, always will.

_It’s not like what’s in the stories, not all of it. But it’s real. It’s there. Even when you might not--_

But Anna’s asleep now, breathing evened to a soft stir. Just a kid. A kid with wide eyes and a heart too much like Totsuka’s, believing what it’s told. Something he’s got to protect--something he can’t afford to be.

 _We are not characters_.

He gets it, finally. Gets it in his bones, deep as a sickness that lingers, a thread bound too tight. Munakata’d already done his share of the cutting.

His job, then, to do the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only gets sadder from this point on, I'm afraid. As always, thank you all for your comments and your encouragement--this chapter was rough to write, and I'm sure the next one will be a killer too...but I definitely will see this through, and I truly appreciate all of you for sticking with me <3


	10. Act 10: Until My Dying Day

_The Damocles dresses in evening light._

_The lanterns burn brighter in their taller skins, candle flame giving way to lightning in long glass bulbs. No desperate figures linger behind the paper facade--paper no longer but panes of smoky glass set in a glittering ebony frame. The awning glistens under its new finish, slick as watered silk, and above it the calligraphy goldfish map the familiar name out in dazzling stars, like they’re leaping against the night sky._

_Is this my Damocles, so diamond hard and lovely? Can it be the same?_

_But it must be, for woven across the windows and eaves are the threads--hundreds, thousands, but so thin, like dusky cobwebs or scarlet mist, turning the light to rosewater on the street puddles and across the shoulders of the elegant crowd. I have never seen anything like it, and I do not know what it could mean._

_Red, everything wrapped in red like the new dress I smooth down over my knees. Red like Mikoto’s hair, washed out in the day’s early rain--he’s only just back, now, and it hurts to look at him for I see the wound where no one else does. Red, red as the strings, and one of them is his, still._

_Not meant to be undone._

_Izumo is gone already, but Tatara takes his time. We won’t be late, but we will be close._

_My hair has come free, despite my sitting statue-poised. The ribbons flutter out of their careful knots, tangle to the floor. I do not know how or why, but at last, I can turn away._

_It hurts, everywhere I look._

 

\--

 

“Mikoto.”

Her hair’s gone everywhere. Guess he should’ve warned Totsuka before he’d tried to pin it up the way he did--how the pale strands never stayed in anything more than a simple tie. Even then it was like trying to catch water.

( _or ink_ )

But she’s holding out her ribbons, and there’s no one else to do it. If she feels his hands twitch in memory, catch too tight, she knows better than to say a word. Longer, heavy, but still too familiar a feel for him to take his time. He twists the strands like sail roping, coils a messy pile on top of her head and spears it in place with one of the cleaner chopsticks lying on the table, the way he’d--

( _Small backstage moments, costume fittings and fussing._

_“All these hairpins, I cannot for the life of me--”_

_“If I may, Awashima-kun--remain still for a moment--there.”_

_“There anything you can’t do?”_

_“A number, though such simple tasks are not part of that particular category. I dare say it might behoove you to master at least a few trivialities of refinement, yojimbo-san, if only for the sake of a certain young lady.”)_

Nevermind. He lashes the satin across in heavy knots, leaves the ends hanging loose and crinkled from roughness. More of a mess than she started with--beyond him to make it right.

“My, how _avant-garde._ ” Anna’s head snaps toward Totsuka, like she’s testing the whole thing to stay in place. It does. “Perhaps Oni-san does have an artistic bone somewhere in him.”

He’s put together some eccentric mash of formal wear and a tight cheer to match. His premier, after all, but between his wardrobe and his date’s hair they make some kind of picture. Mikoto’s not sure it’s a good one. “You should fix it.”

But Anna ducks away from his reach, darts over to Totsuka’s side and looks up at him with a firm shake of her head. Stubborn. “I rather like it.” An absent pat changes direction last minute, lands on her shoulder with a squeeze. “And so does its wearer, and that’s what’s important, isn’t it? It’s--well, I’d rather we were all--but this will do.”

Should’ve been his night, his words finally where he’s always dreamed them. He should be happy. He is--Mikoto can tell, even after all the years, same way he can pick up that tang of guilt somewhere underneath, like brine on summer air.

_We’re all on the line._

But Totsuka, Anna, they’re too sharp for a long silence. He shrugs, makes no move from where he’s sat. “Know it well enough anyways. For the best.”

Izumo, giving him the right things to say even when he’s not around. Gonna miss that. Totsuka sighs, and Anna fidgets. She doesn’t, normally, but--

“You’re gonna be late,” he grits out, finally, softens the tone when he catches a flinch. “I’m--fine. Will be.”

It’s the kind of lie Totsuka expects, the kind that makes him open his mouth to say some stupid thing only Anna tugs him toward the door before he can. Good. Mikoto’d been counting on it, counting on her. A lot, he’s come to notice. Too much a burden for a kid--but that’s alright. Wouldn’t be for much longer.

Totsuka turns back, before they leave, a split-second difference that rips deep. _Still_. But he’s had some time, enough to hide it. “We’ll be back once it’s done, alright?”

One of his not quite promises. Mikoto remembers the last one, a shaky question on the edge of the dock. _You’ll come soon, right?_ He’d nodded, waved him on--just rough enough to let him believe. He’d meant to.

He does the same now, that same easy way. Works, too--Totsuka’s smile is small but relieved as he ushers Anna out the door. She looks back over her shoulder, right before it shuts. Her eyes are--

Gone, before he can make it out. Probably better he doesn’t.

Makes it easier, down the line.

 

\--

 

_Tatara can be cunning, when he chooses. We’re swept in with the stragglers, too hurried to ask questions or notice much. No Shiro, with introductions and half-winged hopes--he would be backstage now, fretting away the moments till curtains rise. Kuroh is the one to usher us to our seats, plush cushions in stiff wooden frames where there used to be tatami and tables. His silvery eyes are clouded with the thing that weighs all of us, the thing I cannot name._

_It should have no place here. It was not meant to, if not for--_

_The Duke. One row ahead, and I cannot see his face but I read hunger in the swell of his shoulders, the tense of the threads. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to him, but even so Tatara has kept me--those eyes look ahead, waiting, with little care for what’s behind. But it is not he who unsettles me._

_There is a man, where Mikoto used to sit. He wears dark robes and deep lines upon his face, and where everything is tangled, he alone is cut clear._

_I do not know what it could mean._

_But there is no time for wonderings, for fear. I feel it, before the music starts, before Tatara’s hand squeezes over my own--a quiver, a tremble through the air. The strings sing with the pluck of sinews, the sweet sigh of the shakuhachi, flutter and rise with the drapes._

_I have heard it, so many times before, but never like this._

_The show has begun._

 

\--

 

It’s all sorted. Paper’s crisp, lies flat and pliant across the table in one neat row. No small amounts--large numbers punched out under the faces of dead men. Zeroes piling up. More than he’s ever had. More than he’d thought.

He’s known the price, all this time. Didn’t ask after it, never would, but it’s common knowledge, the kind passed easily along backstage chatter. Talk of what they’re worth, one way or another--Yoshiwara, all over again, just in another tongue and a change of paper.

High, higher than a decent _oiran_ , if his math is anywhere near right. High--and still nothing close. No amount is. No amount should be.

( _can’t say you didn’t think of it, how it’s counted out--how much for a kiss, for a fuck, for a night and another and weeks after that--but then that was only a moment, and nothing to do with what it was, all those instances too sudden for a forethought, for a calculation, for a bill kept up in your head or his or so you thought, he made you_ **_believe_** _\--)_

It’ll have to do.

Too soon, though. Time turning back to old tricks, creeping by and caring little. Probably only half done with the first act, edging toward the dream duets, the descent--if everything’s going to plan, anyways. Yata’s always ranting about how’d you be a fool to count on it, take for granted all things would fall into place-- _"Look, the story’s out there--back here, what we gotta do is the real thing. Don’t confuse the two, don’t fuck up, because there isn’t some magic fix that’s not your ass on the line.”_

All the warnings, and he doesn’t catch on till now. Some kind of irony--Totsuka’d know which. He can almost see him, mouthing the lines as the show goes on. He can almost see it--the murky back shadows made from gauzy drapes and smoked lights, Awashima stark against them in the dazzling, testy white of her costume. Heavy contrast to Munakata’s--all dark, so that he’ll seem to come out of nowhere, each time he moves.

Does it now, that one scene. She’s turned off to the side, hands clasped tight before her, stiff as pale stone till his hand brushes along the curve of her back and she melts, despite herself, along with all the eyes on them.

_(Practice.)_

Knows the next words, knows the way he’ll say them. Heard each inflection before, entire ranges, carved so deep he feels the breath they spill on, feels the warmth ghost against his ear.

_“What is it that you think you can do?”_

 

\--

 

_I want to say it’s lovely. I want to remember it as it always has been, to me--a story spun by candle light, dream images crafted in the kindest voice. The first gift given, my first night in this city across the sea. It was mine before it was anything else._

_Yes, that is how I want to remember it, but there is too much I see._

_No one else does. If I could be like them, caught up in the floating world fantasy Tatara’s brought to life, caught up in the music, the beauty, the flawless act. If I could see only Uguisu-san, Sakurako-hime, the Lord of Yomi. But even though they wear those masks like second skins, I know too well the hearts that beat beneath them._

_Shiro, Seri._

_Reisi._

_I can’t help but watch them where the others cannot, see where the borders are weakest, the small spaces where illusions breaks--new distance, adjusted gestures, notes pitched a breath lower or cut just short. I see Shiro’s eyes flicker to the row ahead, over and over in constant assurance. I see Seri, Saruhiko, their every move on the cusp of some waiting instinct, and when Reisi graces the stage--_

_I see him sing, as he always does, even with the thread warped tight ‘round his throat._

_It hurts, but I must watch. This final charm to hold everything in place, to keep the Duke’s eyes on the stage and to stay his hand, to hold us captive and still until--_

_The threads tangle._

_I cannot see._

_Perhaps I never could._

 

\--

 

Music comes right through the walls, echoing down the empty alleyways. Second Act, deep in. He’d hit the timing right, somehow. Ingrained knowledge, like knowing the door he’s standing in front of opens into a disused backstage wing, knowing it’s hardly locked.

It is tonight.

Could take it as a sign, a last out. Or could wait until the crescendo comes up, use it for cover to break down this piece of _shit_ \--

“Hey, Mikoto-san.”

Yata’s not supposed to be here. Knows it, too, the way he’s fidgeting outta his skin, half a mind on everything that could be going wrong in his absence--yet, here he is. Don’t know why, can’t think of a response--but the kid doesn’t seem to need one, fixed on dodging his eyes.

“Saruhiko said you’d--” He hitches a thumb over his shoulder, turns. “Er, follow me.”

No questions. Fair enough. They go in silence, a ways around to another entrance Mikoto half remembers. Yata mutters low as he unlocks it, his words nearly swallowed by the music flooding out. “Yatogami’s doing rounds. Orders. Can’t do nothing about it.”

 _Careful_.

But the time for that’s over.

Stairs, instead of a passage, winding up into the dark. Song ends somewhere in the distance, mutes into snatches of dialogue that get clearer the closer they get to--the stage, maybe. Hell if he can tell exactly where Yata’s leading, but he trusts it. Somehow, still.

A sudden turn and there’s light blazing up from below. Rigging space, over the stage, and here it’s familiar--just cross over, down another flight and straight through to the dressing room corridors. Easier than he’d expected, almost disappointing. No hasty replacement barring the path, hulking out of the shadows. Nothing, no fight at all.

( _No point.)_

Swallows it down and follows Yata onto the bridge. They’re halfway across when the words cut through.

_“I would have thought you’d relish the opportunity to be free of this wretched place.”_

That scene. Too soon--he’d fucked up the pace, or they had, or-- Yata shoots a look over his shoulder, just one, and goes on alone.

He should follow.

He _should--_

Too high up to make out faces, expressions. Only the lines reach him, and barely, at that. Something off about them, too--a drag he could be imagining, or it’s just the pressure roaring in his ears, drowning out the control he’s used to hearing, used to--

Music starts, on cue. The song.

( _Your song.)_

He should go. Now, when the hush falls, when they’ve all got their eyes fixed fast--if they hadn’t before. He should _go_.

Can’t. Some sick twist keeping him, keeping him to see what’s worth it, worth more than everything else. Keeping him to hear that voice drop all its airs and excuses, find a tone so clear it cuts to the vein of every word, every line. Sounds like it’s meant to, like Totsuka had written it to.

Sounds true.

But he sees too much, from up here. No faces, but he can track the turn of the head, the path of a gaze past Awashima’s pale crown and into the breathless audience. Can follow it to one row, one seat, one hungry mask.

_\---your eyes upon me, that stirred such a depth of intimacy--_

_\--extensive, relentless_ **_practice_ ** **\--**

The old gashes tear against the railing, white-knuckled grip going red. He can’t turn away fast enough, clear the bridge, the stairs.

Song stays with him, anyways.

 

\--

 

_Tatara’s grip has tightened, but I have no memory of pain--it is washed away in song, in the soar of Reisi’s voice as I have never heard it before. For a handful of precious minutes, I am lost with the rest--despite myself, despite everything I know, everything I fear._

_I cannot help it. I do not want to._

_I have never shied from listening, this song that cost us everything--this I have said. I have not told you why, but here it is:_

_I listen for what I hear this night, this final night--I search, through the hundred voices repeating countless lines, I search for the glimmer of the longing, the truth, the thread pulled raw and resonant with hidden moments and words meant for more than saying. I search for it, hopelessly, for there is only one name for what this could be, one reason why._

_This song is a swan song, and I will never hear it again._

_But here in this moment, I do not know, cannot know. I can only listen, blindly, fervently as worship--seeing nothing but the stage, nothing but the memories of what I know as love. Puzzle boxes and paper flowers, ink song on new parchment, smoke and flour and coffee as dark as the morning is bright, the Damocles holding me to its heart and the heartbeat that steadies itself under the curl of my hand, thundering its warmth against my ear._

_A love song, Tatara said. A song to outdo all others._

_He’s done it. A masterpiece that holds us in its thrall till the last note falls._

_It is only then I notice._

_The seat by the Duke’s side is empty._

 

\--

 

Coughing, again. So bad the sound fills the dressing room hall, so bad Mikoto could follow it even if he didn’t know the way. Too heavy, too haggard to be a passing remnant.

_(Another lie.)_

Bitterness of it holds him at the doorframe, one step from crossing that redrawn line. Munakata’s got his hands braced on the vanity top, head down--he can’t see him in the mirror, but Mikoto can, can see the toll of breathing leave him more undone than he’s ever shown. Next inhale’s too short, broken off somewhere in his chest and somehow ( _still_ ) he’s almost halfway over when Munakata finally looks up, catches him in the reflection.

One of those moments. There’d be something in it, if Totsuka was writing the script. But this is real, and there’s nothing, nothing to see but a careful, tired blankness--enough to stop him dead.

“What are you doing here, Suoh?”

Too flat for scorn. Have to have feeling, for something like that, and the stage and song have used up anything he’s got. All that _practice._ Mikoto feels his mouth twist--not sure into what. “Got a tab to pay.”

Bells and cymbals echo after, another irony--wedding scene’s hit the high point. Not much time left, they both know. Munakata straightens, turns. “I have little need for charity you surely cannot afford. Your absence from this room and from this theatre would be well enough to suffice.”

Still got that perfect delivery, stripped clean and deep enough to bleed him out, turn him back. Only they’ve done this scene before, and just like then his words don’t add up to shit. Mikoto walks through. Nothing stops him. “Not charity. Just business, unless you tell me something different.”

Looks like he will, till the money drops between. Only takes him a glance to count it up--Mikoto wishes he could be surprised. “That is far from the correct amount, were I even to humor this ridiculous charade. However, if making this pathetic point is your way of ensuring closure, then by all means--”

“Buys you a new start.” Comes out more sudden than he’d practiced, more raw than he’d meant to show--but he never was an actor. No, not like them. Not like him. “Anywhere else.”

Music’s dying down, in the distance, falling to silence thick as what’s here. Isana’s monologue next--ten, maybe fifteen minutes. Enough for this to play out, one way or another. Enough for him to _know,_ finally. What’s real. What’s not.

“Unbelievable.” Steady, unlike the tremor in his fingers. “If you think this crude display will convince me to run away with you like some simpering _idiot_ with no thought of--”

“Didn’t say shit about that.” A smoke would be good here, something to gesture that vague disdain, put him on the receiving end for once. “Just you. Tonight.”

Too composed to flinch, but he colors like he’s been struck. Never been his strong suit, those small reflexes where control can’t reach. “You mean to drive me from my home?”

“If that’s how you want to see it.” Mikoto shrugs, leans a hand over the notes, shoves them forward. Close. They always end up so close. “I’d say I’m buying you out of a fucking nightmare. Sets things straight, only way your kind understands.”

It’s a low blow, sour in his mouth. Maybe Munakata tastes it too, the way the lines tighten along his eyes. “I’ve no time for your inanities”--a palm shoves into his chest, hard enough to bruise, as he turns for the door--“If you’ve said your piece, then leave. I want nothing more to do with this.”

Doesn’t look back--same script, same scene. Fine. Mikoto leans back against the vanity, almost casual. “Gonna need more than words, or you forgetting I don’t just roll over like the rest of your limp-wrist buyers.”

That whirls him back around, closest thing to fury Mikoto’s ever seen on him--but the distance stays. “What, then, will it take for you to let me _be?_ ”

Old lines, different pitches. Same sacrifices, and it’s always on him to be the one to step up, step in. “Don’t think I can make it much clearer.” Keeps the pace slow and full of openings the other doesn’t take. “You want me gone so bad, that’s what it takes.”

He’s trembling, faintly. Losing the space he needs to lie, or the strength. “You have no conception of what you’re asking of me. I cannot simply leave.”

“Then I keep coming. Long as I have to.”

“And you believe that leverage means anything to me?”

Whatever edge he’d meant is lost in murmur, old habit when they’re this near, near like in that night-blind room, in the hallways and storage spaces and paper chambers. “Tell me it doesn’t.” Habit to reach out, habit not to fight it--and Mikoto’s not sure which of them is more lost when he’s got his hand fitted to the low curve of his back, pulling in. “If it’s true, tell me now. Put me out. Won’t change a thing, but that won’t matter to you, right? Not if you got nothing to lose. Not if I’m”--locked together, every line kindling to heat--”Nothing.”

Knows the answer, already, whatever else he might try to say. It’s there in this reckless closeness, the pulse through them as wrecked as that first blue night--no smoke or silver, but that _look_ as his mouth parts, not around any words but for a breath that rushes full and hot and so _desperate_ Mikoto almost misses that small flicker in his gaze. Trick of the light, maybe, or--

He turns his head. The tea room, small and darkened-- _futon_ laid out on the floor, the suggestion he’d been ignoring since he’d walked in, other plans in mind. Nothing outta place, from what he remembers--except that screen, there, moved to the deep shadows at the head of the bedclothes, and in the shallow bottom gap--

The barest glint of a sword, an arm’s reach away.

 

\--

 

_Shiro’s lines lilt on, all their pretty poetry lost on me. I cannot help it--the chair draws my eye, the long minutes it remains vacant. There could be any number of reasons, any number of excuses--_

_But I feel it, in the threads, pulling tighter and tighter like screws wound into my chest._

_Something is wrong._

_“A heart is a difficult thing to hold,” Shiro sighs, and the music picks up. His soliloquy is almost at an end, meant to drift to one last garden meeting. One last appearance by the Lord of Yomi, one last silent exchange of glances between the living and the dead._

_One last moment._

_That is when--_

_I can stand it no longer. Tatara’s hand is easy to shake off, as if he’s caught it as well--he doesn’t try to stop me as I stand, dart through the rows to the passages I know so well. I must get backstage. I must--_

 

\--

 

“What the _hell_ are you--”

Too late. The music’s starting, drowning out their fire, and he’s quick to run, _always_ so _\--_ “I have to--just leave, Suoh.”

 _Fuck that_ \--but even that thought’s too long, and Munakata’s out of sight before he can get his body to follow. No matter. He knows where he’s going--only one path.

One end.

_They all tangle. I can’t see._

Corridors go longer when they’re empty, no one to push through but still his silhouette flickers out of reach--the flap of cloth around a corner, flash of a profile on the turn. Once he’d let him go. Not again. Not now.

_You have to remember. It’s there._

A sharp bend and he sees him, suddenly, hand braced against the wall like he needs it. Out of breath.

_There’s no time. He doesn’t have--_

“Get _away_.” Harsh enough to lash his hands off like a strike. “This has nothing to do with you, why can’t you _understand_?”

“Then stop running and tell me--” But words won’t hold him and he’s off, again, towards the stairs, the catwalk between wings. “Shit, Munakata!”

Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t slow.

Mikoto takes the steps two at a time, almost harder than they can hold, chasing the footfalls that stagger roughly somewhere above. Impact rocks through the beams, some out of sync rhythm that feels like it’ll shake the whole thing apart. Loud--stage calls, knocking sets, the music and Isana just a backdrop away--but through it all it’s the breaths he makes out, ripped out so deep they’d be groans if there was voice left in them.

_Hurting. He won’t let you help._

The crest of the walk comes suddenly--he almost trips, wrenches himself upright. Munakata’s already on it, nearly across before the gasps slow him enough for Mikoto to catch him. Too easy, that give as he whips him around so they’re chest to chest on the narrow bridge, frantic heartbeat pounding through the gaps in his own. “Tell me the truth.”

Been here, before--wood under his hands, arms locked and set as cage bars around the one person they can’t hold. And even as he is now, ragged lungs and quaking shoulders, he could break them--break this. The eyes say he might--inhuman color, inhuman stillness. “You would have this done here, now?”

They’ve got an audience, clustered on the edge of sight. Awashima, Fushimi, a few stagehands gaping below--probably more in the space above. Isana drones on somewhere behind him, matching the wound down tempo of the closing theme. Nothing to him, though, not now. Mikoto finds he can manage a smirk. “Not like you’re giving me much of a choice.”

“Every single one at my disposal.” But there’s an answering quirk on his lips, cracking the last of his masks in two. “Yet you remain utterly impossible.”

Same recycled lines, but it doesn’t matter. Not when he says them like he once did, at the start, caution to the wind. No act carries that long--Mikoto remembers. “Could say the same about you.”

The music’s softening. That’s his cue. But he doesn’t move, just brings his hands up, rests the familiar warmth along his shoulders. “Can you still claim to trust me, then?”

 _It is nothing so simple_. Only, it is.

“Yeah.” Inelegant, but the relief’s making a mess of him, like the touch, like that look. “Guess I never stopped.”

He smiles. Full, real--like he had on that first slip beneath the lights, and maybe it’d been in that moment, or any of those after that first curtain rise, or maybe even before the Damocles, an exile or a sickness or all the inexplicable twists Totsuka called fate, all of that leading to this certainty right here, right--

Then the grip tightens, spins him back and there’s no time to fight the mouth pressing against his like a sudden shock when--

 

_The shot echoes._

_The thread breaks._

_I’m too late to see it, though I’ve dreamt it a thousand times._

_I’m always, always too late._

 

Blood on his tongue. Warm copper. Heavy salt. It’s his--it has to be his, it has to--then Munakata slumps heavy in his arms, and he knows it’s not.

Awashima screams. Raw, on and on.

The weight staggers him. Something’s trickling too fast across his hands--he can’t look, _look_ and it’s real and it can’t--but keep his eyes straight and there’s--

The priest. Iwafune. Arm out, steady hand on a steady trigger. Trained on him.

It was supposed to be--

“Finish it.” The words clot in his throat, like the blood that won’t. “Got your orders, just--”

“No.” Fingers twitch at his shoulder, too weak to clasp--but then they _push_ , and Mikoto feels the steel of his spine pull straight against his hand as he turns. Command shapes each word, wills gravity into the space where they break. “There is no longer--any point.”

Shouldn’t talk. Shouldn’t be able to stand like he is now, staring down the too long seconds it takes for the pistol to drop. Act’s bought, or that’s just the truth of it--no point in the wrong hit, no money in the right one when the reason is bleeding out, when it should’ve been--

He goes, the last show of strength with him. Munakata goes too limp, too sudden--a bad fall and his knees bear all of it but pain’s shot through everywhere, echoing round and round like that white noise screaming.

“I’ve got you.” The face against his shoulder doesn’t stir, carved fine and still and so, so white except where it’s all too red. “Hey, I’ve got--”

“...Suoh.” So thin, that skin on his eyelids, and still too heavy to blink. He does it. That crazy force of will. “You’re loud.”

 _Don’t_ \--but it doesn’t make it to sound. He’s got a hand on the wound like it’ll stay it, stay what’s leaking out too fast to fix. Blood, air--his breathing’s gone shallower, dragging gasps that Mikoto feels through his chest--worse than the coughing, worse than the smoke.

“--forgive me.” His eyes are slow to focus on him, but they stay when they do. “I’ve left you this--unfinished business.”

The spite almost feels like a balm, some familiar vice rippling through with the steps thundering up the stairs--that even now, nothing belongs to them, not this moment, not these words, not-- “Don’t talk.” Can’t let himself say anything else. “Just, the doctor--”

One harsh exhale, like a laugh. The touch on his face is wet. “Mikoto.” Should’ve never told him his name, not when he says it like that, and he’d give him his breath and blood and everything else if he’d just--”Promise me.”

But it’s only ever been one thing.

_Reisi needs words._

His fingers are slipping--he catches them, holds tight despite the fading heat. Moments left, maybe. A handful, to lean in, press his voice to shell of his ear.

“Reisi,” he murmurs. Can’t manage the rest, names that belong to gods too far to care. “Reisi, I--”

Doesn’t matter what he says. Doesn’t matter because he’s said it all along, but he keeps talking. Can’t stop. Past the shudder, the still and the silence. Past all of it, just till--

 

_There are doctors. The best, perhaps. They do not see what I do, the frayed edges dark on the ground. Mikoto leaves them to it. His hands are red, always so red. His face is--_

_I can’t look._

_Seri holds tight to hope, pleads her voice raw with it. Her white robes have gone crimson, dirt on the knees from when Saruhiko dragged her to the floor. She would have chased him, the man with the gun. Perhaps the Damocles would have taken her, too._

_Frantic minutes to learn the knowledge that has already worked its fingers numb through my veins. A young surgeon shakes his head. Saruhiko hauls him up by his jacket, needs Misaki and Izumo and more to tear him away. Seri stays--no one will touch her._

_Tatara’s hands hesitate against my shoulders. I feel guilt in him, through him, hear it when he asks, “Where is Mikoto?”_

_He was by my side._

_I turn and--_

_He’s gone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry--this one was the worst to write. Everything get wrapped up next chapter, then there's an epilogue that's only vaguely related. As always, thank you all for coming this far. I need to go read some fluff now.


	11. Act 11: Happy Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Misleading title warning! Following the musical spirit of the movie, this chapter's named after a MIKA song, where I drew some inspiration and feels.

It’s not right. Appropriate, maybe, but--not _right_. But nothing’s been, really, not for a long while.

You could wonder how they managed it, where the money came from. How much for a good mason, someone who can do exactly what he’s told and not ask questions, how much for a plot of land when it’s done. Skimped on that, maybe, the trouble it took to find it.

_Could’ve asked the ones who know, could’ve taken familiar streets to a familiar door and--_

Not hard trouble, though. Just talking. He tries not to, if he can help it--language is becoming far too easy on his tongue, like some kind of betrayal. Still, the fading accent gets him easy answers, and then some.

_“Oh, yes, the Damocles scandal, well I heard--”_

_“--a few months back, wasn’t it--”_

_“You’d think they’d have the decency to shut it down but--”_

_“--played out to death, I tell ya, ran the entire circuit both sides of the river and--”_

_“Of course with what happened, and still no leads on it--”_

_“--happens with foreigners, getting involved in all that--”_

_“It’s kind of romantic, in a way, and they say if you visit the grave--”_

_“Right! If you visit--it’s a charming little thing, so unique--they say--”_

_“They say--”_

Bullshit charms and stories, and he’d nodded through each one till they point him down the same roundabout paths to the same half-wild patch of hillside. The road went ragged beneath him, ducked into an overgrown gate and between wild rows of stone until there it was, suddenly and serenely out of place.

_Not right._

Some kind of regal, aside from the offerings. Incense gone to ash, flowers just shy of wilted, and other things that don’t fit--a handful of coins, scraps of folded paper, small trinkets wrapped in red thread. _They say._ He can’t name what pulses through, only feel it’s dull pressure against the reef of his skull. Even now, even this doesn’t belong to--

But that’s not what he came for.

The branches shift overhead, shake loose some thin light. The characters are hard to make out on the dark of the stone, but he doesn’t need to see them--he’s got the memory sketched into his skin, sewn close as a scar. Still hasn’t faded, no matter what he wants, what he tries--but hell, he hasn’t done much but settle into it. He thumbs under the worn leather strap on his shoulder, shifts the weight across his back. Heavier, suddenly, an ache fresher than whatever’s spent the months dulling its teeth on him.

“Hey.”

Pointless. Stone doesn’t answer. He’d never understood the tradition, but the silence pulls it out of him ( _like he used to_ ). What he carries slips off too quickly, knocking against his elbow, bruising through the cloth. All this time, and it’s still awkward in his hands--but he never had any right to it, just some howling impulse to have something, anything, to _hold_ \--

“Can’t say it’s how you would’ve done it.” He lets the wrappings drop to the ground, the lacquer scabbard warming in his touch like a living thing. “Not like you told me _shit_ , all said and done.” Surprises him and doesn’t, how deep the anger’s twined, how persistent--under the ache, it’s all he’s got left. “But it’s got his blood on it. Figured that was the endgame.”

Clumsy with a blade--it trembles against the pedestals when he kneels to lay it across--but that hadn’t mattered, not that night, not how easy it carves through, flaying filth from flesh and deeper, everywhere but the place that craves it.

“Not his death, though.” It’s as much an apology as he’ll allow himself. He straightens, steps back. “That was mine. Needed that much.”

Still feel it when it rains, now, deep in the places where the bones have knit themselves wrong, where he’d had to break them back into place--feels that blood trickling warm, inside and out, and he’s kept from touching anything, anyone since. Nothing, nothing but the sword, the sword and whatever else he’d needed to keep going, keep moving, until--

The stone is cool under his fingers. Smooth. Nothing else.

“Mikoto.”

He turns.

Anna stares. She’s grown, again--or it’s just how she stands, tall as he once did, back laced _obi_ -straight even though she’s in one of those full Western dresses. Black silk and white lace--mourning colors, any way you look at it--and there are flower boughs in her arms, a small satchel, a narrow pail nervous with water. Everything to do what she shouldn’t have to.

_(What you left her to.)_

“Anna.” Hard, for two syllables, and affection’s a taste he’s slow to remember, if he’d ever had right to it at all. “Good look on you.”

Words that are far from what she deserves, he doesn’t need to see her face go mask-still to know it. A Damocles trick, like she’s--but the thought’s knocked loose as she brushes by, composed as one of Totsuka’s songs. Anything she’s learned would be on her own terms--always been her way, even with him. She pauses, before the grave, takes in its newest offering.

“I told Seri you took it.” She kneels, sets her burdens down carefully. Once upon a time, he might’ve helped her. “I am glad I was right.”

“Sorry,” he says, late, but she’s already clapped her hands together, bent her head to silence. Wind sighs through. His hands ache. Doesn’t take long, the prayer, but she wouldn’t have much to say. Not like him, and some part of him wants to go, now, before--

“There was a fire.” She doesn’t look at him, her hands busy sweeping gently across the stone, nudging the old charms into her open bag. “At the estate of our honourable patron, the Duke Renault. Did you know?”

The flowers go next, thrown to the brush. She’s picked up that roundabout way of talking, too, and it scrapes him raw. “Yeah. Heard.”

She takes one of the fresh cuttings in hand, taps it against her lips before fixing it delicately in place. Goes through three more before she’s satisfied enough to continue. “Did you know our door was one of the first they came to?” Her hand pauses, just a moment, a pale shadow on the gleam of the scabbard. “Of course, they found nothing. No one tells more than they have to, not with something like that. We take care of our own, and he was not.”

_Promise me._

Hits him that she’s used more words than he’s used to, like that small feeling of knowing has flickered out between them. But he wouldn’t want her to know him deep as she can--not as he is now. “Some law, trying to pin death on a theatre troupe.”

“In some ways,” is her reply. Vague. She folds the last of the flowers into place--looks like a wave from here, petals in white and blue crashing against the grey. “It did not hold.”

It wouldn’t. He’d made sure of that. She stands, brushes the dust from her skirts and takes up the water. Uses a kitchen ladle to do the purifying--they wouldn’t have the traditional wood, not here. _Sentimentality fastens itself upon such small matters._ The rivulets lick over each character, syllable by syllable. _Stroke order is beyond off._

Can’t take much more of this.

Anna turns when she hears the papers unfold. Heavy creases and travel stains, but she sees right through them, takes the sheave delicately from his outstretched hand. No flinch, only the pale furrow of her brow as she brings the small, neat type close to her face. “This is--”

“All of it.” Made sure of that, too. “Deeds, contracts, whatever was there. You have it now. Guess Isana will know what to do with it if--”

She crashes into him--comes up almost to his chest now, far enough to knock the air from his lungs. New, jarring strength in the circle of her arms, the fingers warping the heavy weave of his shirt. “Come back.” Her voice is calm, but he feels what’s brimming over, soaking through. “Please. It is done now, they’ve gone and it is done and we need you. Izumo and Tatara and Misaki and I-- _I_ need you. Please, come home.”

Home. He sees it, like he always does--the clattering stairs, the doors that don’t lock. Papers on the table. Spill of sunlight. Theatre through the window, and it’s the same kind of thing--he’s shadowed it back through each hall, past every door save one. He’s thought about it, about falling down there, at last, in the heart of it, and staying there while the rest of it can just--

\--burn.

( _It is my home._

Yeah, it is. So I can’t. Not with this.)

His hand comes up, and her hair runs down--slips over that searing heat like grave water, and does nothing to put it out. Don’t think anything ever will. “Iwafune?”

The name locks her hold tighter--but she’s not a stupid girl, not Anna. “Kuroh has followed rumors, when he hears of them. They have led to nothing.”

He tilts his head up. The light’s turning orange, there behind the leaves. “Figured.”

She lets him go. Her face is solemn beneath the shimmer--can’t tell what’s left it. Never could. He wrings out a smile for her, and it’s even true. Glad it’s her. Glad in the way that executions can be painless, goodbye’s swift enough to sever clean. He’d fucked up the last one, but this--this feels right.

Right as it can be.

“See you, Anna.”

She looks at him, and she grips the papers like she might grip that sword--the one thing he can let her bring back. “No.”

It’s a simple truth, nothing more or less. Sets something else adrift in him, but the flames will get that too, eventually. At least she won’t have to watch. Least he can do.

He feels her eyes follow him down the hill, through the thickets and gravestones, feels the weight of them settle on his shoulders, in the hollow the sword leaves behind. Something else to carry, until he can’t anymore.

_This is unlike you, Suoh._

You’d think he’d be there, waiting on the side street, and the bricks are warm against his hand when he steadies himself against the sharp tide of memory. Yeah, unlike him. Never courted ghosts. But at least he doesn’t turn around--hasn’t, for a long while.

_(You would leave everything, everyone for this?_

Said I would, didn’t I? Meant it, too.

_Well then, shall we?)_

The streets crowd close, close enough for a passing brush to feel like more than it’s got a right to--but in the end, he knows, what’s real, what’s not. Always meant so much to him, but now he almost wishes--

But this isn’t that kind of story.

No story at all.

 

_I never saw him again. I did not think I would. But I felt him, burning, always._

_Until one day, I did not._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pretty much wraps up the plot. The epilogue is more of a self-indulgent little thing and doesn't really add much, so if I've left anything unclear or y'all have any questions, just let me know! Again, it means so much to me that you've read all the way here, and I'm sorry I couldn't craft a happy ending. Thank you all <3


	12. Epilogue

~~_Dearest Mlle,_ ~~

~~_Dearest,_ ~~

~~_Dear An-_ ~~

~~_Dear me?_ ~~

~~_To whom it may concern,_ ~~

_Hello,_

_Is that how you start a letter to yourself?_

_Perhaps that is not the right question. Perhaps the better question is that of self--whether you are me or I am you, or if we were the same soul or distinct until this blurring of boundaries and now there is no point in drawing lines. It’s a strange thing to consider. Then again, so is immeasurable power granted by an enigmatic stone tablet, all tied up in swords that take up the sky and the souls bound to them, willing or not._

_That must be hard for you to imagine, as difficult as your story would be to me--if I did not catch the fragments in my dreams. I’m sorry, if you never meant to share it. I know the kind of things that should be kept close to the heart. In that way, well, I can believe we are the same._

_With the Slate broken (I don’t expect you to understand this, just as I don’t know much of stagecraft and musical scores), I’m not what I used to be, and that’s more than alright. But nothing is ever that simple, and even though there’s no death hovering over my head, I still get echoes, sometimes, of the burden. I had gifts before--if you can call them that--and they are slow to die. I wonder if_ ~~_Shiro_ ~~ _Addy has the same kind of thing. I wonder if Reisi does._

_He’s alive, here. Mikoto and Tatara are not._

_I think it would be cruel to compare which of us ended up losing more. I think you still have Tatara, and for that I am glad. And we both have Izumo--does he also watch you out of the corner of his eye, while you do your writing at the bar? He must notice that you notice--mine does, I think, but it’s part of the game we play. It’s--not how it used to be, but it’s a necessary thing--something like those threads, I suppose. We still adjust to one another. Maybe you do the same._

_It must be easier, with Tatara still there._

_I’m sorry, I sound jealous don’t I? I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t, in some ways. Funny--I don’t even know if you’re real or just a figment of Strain power that won’t let go. But it’s a strange fantasy to have, if that’s what it is. After all, Mikoto and Reisi were never--at least, not where we could see._

_But maybe that’s what they mean by ‘karma’, the patterns of lives repeating. Izumo called it ‘attraction’ between Kings, Tatara said ‘communicating’--I just felt something running between or beneath, like a hungry current. No one expected me to understand, so I did not try._

_He gave Reisi his death though, in the end. Maybe to balance things out._

_Did he have these dreams too, I wonder?_

_Does Reisi_

 

“You’ve been working on that a long time, Anna. Everything alright?”

“Yes. It’s a school assignment. English. We have to write a letter.”

“Ah, well, do you need me to take a look at it? Admittedly it’s been a while since I’ve had to brush off my writing skills but--”

“It’s fine, Izumo. I won’t get better that way.”

“...ah, so that’s how it is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I knew this time would come, when you’d start secreting things away from your beloved _ojisan_. It comes with growing up, I suppose--I’ll miss my sweet, candid Anna.”

“...gross.”

“Why--”

“You sound a bit like a pervert, _o-ji-san_.”

“...okay, okay, never mind all that, go back to ‘Izumo’. Sheesh, where you picked up your attitude from I can only--well, no, I know exactly who to blame. But I guess you wouldn’t only get the best of them.”

“...is it so bad?”

“...no. Not if it’s you, Anna.”

“Izumo?”

“Yes?”

“Have you ever--?”

A door opens, chimes on the air.

“Ah, it’s--welcome, the usual, I take it?”

“Yes, thank you, Kusanagi-shi.”

“Welcome back, Reisi.”

“And Miss Anna as well, what a pleasant surprise.”

 

_Perhaps one day I might ask him, with the right words. Not now, when he’s only a few seats away and still close enough that it’s all I can do not to hunch over this paper. Not now, when what we are is still a strange thing in my chest._

_For some part of me covets it--that snowbound moment it happened, that fading heat and scattering red, and while Mikoto’s last words were mine I--even though I forgave him, it never seems enough. I think you know what I mean. And Reisi does, too. So I want to ask him, did you know? Did you understand? What did you see, what did he see--what was it that you kept from all of us?_

_I have dreams, of anger and sorrow and threads that carry them and bind us tight--do you have them too?_

_Will it happen again?_

_I don’t know the answer, and if Reisi does, he might not tell me. Like yours, perhaps, he’s good at keeping secret things. I just, I want to think that--if you are real, if any of the others are, well, I don’t want us to be the only ones. Surely there’s a story where we don’t lose anyone. There must be._

_I want to meet her. The me who has all of heart. And perhaps we won’t be different at all, but I want to see her, I hope to see her--before the power in me runs out._

_I think you’d want that, too._

 

“If you don’t mind me asking, Miss Anna, what are you writing?”

“It’s nothing Reisi, just a letter for school.”

“Indeed? You had such a determined look on your face, it was--somewhat nostalgic.”

“It’s an important assignment. Putting things into words--sometimes people need that.”

“Oya, what an interesting turn of phrase.”

“Is it?”

“I imagine you may excel at that particular art, someday, if that is your inclination.”

“Ah--thank you.”

 

_One day, but not today._

_I’ll write you the answer then._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote--this is officially the longest work I've ever followed through on. Thank you all so, so much for your feedback and encouragement--I know I say that at every chapter, but it's really helped me rediscover the joy in writing. I recently tried to apply to a couple of MFA programs, and while I wasn't able to make it in, all your kudos and reviews have really helped me not to be too discouraged and keep my head up :) Honestly, you're all great <3
> 
> Hopefully I can give you some happier things in the future, b/c I do plan to keep writing for fandom as best I can :D If you'd like, you can come yell at me over on tumblr--my username is the same as it is here, and I tend to post more short pieces in between the fangirling xD
> 
> Again, thank you guys for coming along this ride with me--I'll get to answering to those reviews I've left hanging, I swear! I really do appreciate y'all <3


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